


The Washing Machine Story

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Not much plot, Post-Movie, domestic crime solving fluff, domesticity porn, many words, much domesticity, or possibly too much plot?, post-MKAT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan and Veronica solve a case and banter about golf, Grease, marriage, and conspiracy theories. Post MKAT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Washing Machine Story

**Author's Note:**

> (Just under the wire is still under the wire)

Veronica is a little tipsy.

Not drunk. Not hammered. Not wasted.

Comfortably buzzed, as she lazes into the apartment, Logan at her flank, carrying the clunky high heels that have held Veronica hostage all evening.

That’s sweet of him. Logan is sweet. And handsome. And sweet, because he voluntarily designated himself driver for the Silverado Club Summer Charity Gala—an event Veronica attended as the _personal guest_ of Petra Landros and endured only with the help of several glasses of champagne. Hence the necessity of Logan’s designation and consequential sweetness. And handsomeness, because he’s wearing a very finely tailored suit, with the tie now hanging loose around his neck as he kicks the front door closed behind them and deposits Veronica’s heels on the shoe rack.

As far as boyfriends go, Logan is really all right. Even if he did tell that embarrassing washing machine story tonight.

Their apartment is dark but not quiet, because Pony immediately abandons her bed in the living room to greet them, yipping enthusiastically at their long-awaited return.

She bypasses Veronica after a rejected solicitation for petting, and goes to jump around Logan’s knees.

Logan crouches down to coo at the dog, two now and not a puppy anymore, not at all, though you wouldn’t know it to hear Logan: “Who’s a good girl, yes, yes you are, yes, we’re sorry we abandoned you, yes we are...”

Veronica leaves Pony to butter up Logan and pads into the kitchen, flipping on the lights as she goes. She sighs and drops herself onto one of the stools at the island counter, setting her clutch down and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. She watches the Logan-and-Dog scene with lazy amusement.

“I should probably take her out,” Logan concludes, straightening up again and joining his girlfriend in the kitchen.

“Mmmm, better you than me. I’m beat.” She punctuates the claim with a yawn, and Logan grins. He saunters over to her and plants himself between her knees, dropping his warm hands on her shoulders and a kiss on her forehead. “You should make pancakes,” Veronica decides after a moment, eliciting a chuckle from her boyfriend. It’s almost midnight; they’ve talked and danced and socialized most of the night, and Veronica’s more than ready to get out of her skintight cocktail dress, so while _heading straight to bed_ is certainly a worthy option, the possibility of carbohydrates is also tempting.

“Or _you_ could make pancakes,” Logan counter-suggests, “while _I_ take Pony out.”

Veronica pouts. “But your pancakes taste better.”

“Suck-up.”

“If you play your cards right.”

“And a seductress, too.”

“I have many talents.”

“Including passing out, dead to the world, after you eat late night breakfast food.”

“Including that, yes, but not limited to that."

"Oh?"

"You should see me on a balance beam."

Logan leans down to peck her on the lips, but Veronica keeps him there for a minute—then two—because he is sweet and handsome and it’s not just the champagne talking. Just when they’re getting to that point where it looks as though plans for both Pony and pancakes will be postponed indefinitely, the dog climbs up on her hind legs, plants her front paws on Veronica’s stool, and begins to nudge Veronica with her nose. When she transfers one paw to Logan’s leg, it becomes too much to ignore and the couple pulls apart.

“Cockblock,” Veronica grumbles at the dog, while Logan reaches down to scratch Pony’s ears.

“Shhh, you’ll give her a complex.”

“You know,” Veronica’s arms have made their way around his neck, and she unwinds them now, so her hands drop to her lap, “this wouldn’t be a problem if you’d just gone along with my plans for the car earlier.”

Logan toys with her (tastefully) revealing Queen Anne neckline and grins. “I need to know that you really _respect_ me, Danny.”

She snorts and does her best Travolta: “What’s-a matter with you? I thought I _meant_ something to you.”

“You know how it is.” Logan shrugs. “Rockin’ and rollin’ and whatnot.”

“That’s my line.”

“You get all the good lines.”

Veronica sighs, turns her attentions back to Pony, snapping her fingers and ordering _down, girl_. Pony obeys, obviously disappointed, and Veronica can’t resist adding a few words of encouragement: “Good girl. Daddy’s gonna take you for a—”

“Don’t say it!”

“...Walk.”

At once, Pony zips over to the front door, scraping at it with her paws and her nose as if she fully intends on busting through. Logan turns to glare at Veronica.

“I have to _change_ first,” he points out, gesturing at his suit, to which Veronica shrugs and slides off the stool. Pony’s still yapping by the door, and Logan calls out a useless “I’ll be right there!” as he follows Veronica back to the bedroom. He tugs off his tie, then his dinner jacket, and Veronica releases another yawn, stretching her arms high into the air.

“You could just take her out in your tux like Nick Charles,” she says over her shoulder.

“And get _sand_ in my _dress socks?_ ” Logan scoffs.

In their room, he tosses his jacket and tie over the desk chair and, unfastening cufflinks, watches as Veronica pulls hairpins from the complicated up-do she’s managed to maintain all evening. Pony continues to gripe out in the entry way.

“I can’t believe you told the washing machine story tonight,” Veronica complains, as Logan begins to unbutton his shirt.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s the matter with the washing machine story?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s _cute_.”

“It’s cute to _you_.”

“Your dad thinks it’s cute, too.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

She strolls up to him, turns and offers her back, hair held up away from her neck, so that Logan can unzip the dress. He does, follows it up with a light smack on her ass, and Veronica scowls back to his smirk.

“Your ‘nice girl’ rep is slipping, Sandy,” she says, then realizes what she’s done a moment too late. Logan’s already got the words, “Tell me about it...” past his lips before she can cover his mouth with the palm of her hand and arrange her features in possibly the least sincere look of stern reprimand in recorded history. “Don’t even think about it,” she orders. He blinks, which is meant to be a nod. She removes her hand, and the second she does: “...Stud.”

“Goddammit, Logan.” He laughs, and she shimmies out of her black lace-over-satin sheath dress, lets it join the dry-cleaner-bound dinner jacket on the chair, and, clad in her underwear, struts to the bathroom, conscious of Logan’s gaze even with her back to him.

She brushes her teeth, scrubs her face, and stashes her hair back into something that resembles a ponytail, and by the time she’s done, Logan is in sweats, pulling a t-shirt over his head. If Veronica stops to ogle his abs before they disappear beneath dusky blue cotton, it’s because Logan is just four days back from two weeks away, and she’s only human. And cheerfully tipsy.

Logan spares her a kiss on the cheek as he rolls past her into the bathroom.

“Do people really spend all of their weekends like this?” she calls to him through the cracked door, removing one diamond earring and setting it on the bureau. It’s the pair that Logan gave her for their second anniversary, though they both pretended not to remember the date and acted as though the gift, fancy dinner at 1500 Ocean, and subsequent foundation-shaking sex marathon were normal Tuesday evening fare. “John Cooper said his entire summer is booked with art auctions and wine-and-cheese fundraisers.” She snorts, “Oh, and Kimmy Blake-Gallagher is throwing a black-tie dinner party to show off the _famous_ Gallagher champagne flutes.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Logan calls back, voice muffled like he’s got a toothbrush in his mouth, “Kimmy Blake-Gallagher is throwing a black-tie dinner party to show off her new breasts. But does that mean you don’t want to attend? Because dear sweet Kimmy offered me an invitation while I was trying to con that waiter out of his entire hors d’oeuvre tray for you.”  

Veronica deposits the earrings in her jewelry box, making a gagging expression for the benefit of no one but herself. “I’m sure she did. Let me guess—she didn’t offer a plus-one?”

There’s the sound of spitting, then the faucet, and then Logan pops his head out, leering. “I told her I couldn’t make it, but that you’d gladly take my seat.”

“Did steam _actually_ pour out of her ears?”

“In droves.” Veronica smirks and selects one of Logan’s shirts while he finishes up in the bathroom. She pulls the material over her head and finds herself drowning in the olive-colored, forest-green-flecked cotton, a lovely scent combination of _Logan_ and fabric softener. Then Logan returns to fish socks out of the top drawer. “Why did you want to go to this thing anyway?” he asks. “Not your usual social scene.”

“Well I was _hoping_ you’d wear your dress blues and we could play that game I like...”

“Uh-huh, _besides_ that.”

Veronica sighs, unsnapping her bra underneath the shirt. Truthfully, she _hadn’t_ wanted to attend a luxurious banquet chock full of 09ers, but Petra Landros insisted that Veronica and Logan take two of the seats at her two-thousand-a-head-table-for-six, and, like most of Ms. Landros’s offers, it was phrased as one not to be refused. “Good for business, that kind of thing,” says Veronica. “Petra Landros throws a lot of work my way, no matter _what_ your theories about her late husband might be.”

“I’m sorry, a _skiing_ accident? Come on.”

“I hope you didn’t share that particular theory with her over cocktails.”

Logan frowns seriously. “Would that be bad?”

Veronica shakes her head, then adds: “Well, tonight _was_ good for business. Our new District Attorney scheduled an appointment for a case next week.”

“Anything good?”

“I don’t know. Something going on at the courthouse.”

“Covering up the existence of extra-terrestrials?” asks Logan hopefully.

“Oh get out of here and walk the dog,” says Veronica with a playful shove, and Logan snickers on his way out.

Veronica applies lotion to her hands and catches the sounds of the leash rattling, Logan’s “ _All right, all right, I’m coming_ ,” and Pony’s responding yelps, just before the front door opens and closes. Then the apartment is quiet: as quiet as it was for the two whole Logan-less weeks and will be once more, whenever the U.S. Navy decides to whisk him away from her again. With Logan on shore duty for the time being, he’s around a lot more so it’s not so bad, really, and when he _does_ have to leave, it’s for days not months, usually stateside. Veronica can’t really complain, but—

 _Get it together, Mars_ , she tells herself—her mantra, some days—and heads back into the kitchen to fill up a water bottle. The champagne buzz is fading slowly yet surely, but she’ll have an unpleasant headache tomorrow if she doesn’t take precautions. So she carries the bottle back with her to their room, swallows a third of the water _en route_ , and then climbs into bed, lights on for Logan. She’s suddenly very, very sleepy. Probably if he came in now and offered to fix her a giant stack of pancakes, she’d turn him down. Probably.

She sets the bottle on the bedside table and curls up under the blankets. A few minutes slip by, with Veronica in a warm and hazy bubble of tipsiness...

—Seriously... the fact that he told _the washing machine story._ At a black-tie event. Sometimes she thinks Logan does these things just to tick her off. Sometimes she _knows_ he does. Of all the stories to break out in front of Neptune’s elite, he picks _that_ one. And—

Okay, how long does it take to walk the dog, anyway?

Veronica begins to fret. He was supposed to take Pony down to the beach, let her pee, let her run up and down a couple times, and then come back. He wasn't supposed to make a whole _night_ of it.

Veronica purposefully does not check the clock to see how many minutes Logan’s been gone, and she instead forces her mind elsewhere:

_Kimmy Blake-Gallagher, indeed._

Well, Kimmy can’t really be blamed for throwing herself at Logan. Veronica might too, if she were married to a septuagenarian and the most interesting part of her life were a bunch of ugly old wine glasses.

Hell, Veronica had trouble keeping her hands off Logan when she had a nice, attractive boyfriend and a job offer from an elite New York law firm, so...

They’ve been together two and a half years now, Logan and Veronica, after nine years of radio silence and unacknowledged longing and problematic romantic placeholders. It would be a lie to say that they don’t fight now, because they do. Bicker, too, and sometimes just plain argue, because Logan can be an annoying jackass, and—she’s woman enough to admit it—Veronica’s not always a can of liquid sunshine. But two and a half years is a lot: the kind of _a lot_ that doesn’t even feel like so very much at all, and, fact is, after nearly a decade of mediocrity, Veronica is too old and too tired to settle for anything less than the Good Stuff. Plus—

12:13... Logan’s been gone twenty minutes. And he wasn’t exactly wearing much, either. He didn’t bring a sweatshirt. Went out in a thin t-shirt, and that’s not enough right here on the coast, even in July. He’s gonna get himself sick, and then he’s going to hang around on the couch and make a nuisance of himself.

He shouldn’t have gone out alone at all. The neighborhood is pretty safe, and he took Pony, but Logan is a trouble _magnet,_ irresistible bait for random-acts-of-violence. He should have taken the Taser. He’s almost certainly let Pony off the leash, and she’ll be no good to him if she’s fifty yards off.

Veronica sits up in bed to check his bedside stand… and, yes, Logan’s left his cell phone, that idiot. Too busy gawking at Veronica in her underwear no doubt; he’s gone off without his phone, and—

The front door opens, and Pony can be heard barking her protests—“Good girl, yes, okay I gotta take... well you have to let me take off the leash, I... Pony, _sit._ Good girl. _Stay”_ —and Veronica quickly shakes off her now defunct concerns, as if Logan will somehow detect them just by walking into the room. However, when he enters a few minutes later (after refilling Pony’s water dish and turning out the lights around the apartment), he demonstrates no such telepathic abilities, just kicks off his tennis-shoes, socks, and pants, and switches off the overhead.

“Did Pony try to eat a seagull?” asks Veronica, turning from her side to her back, while Logan rids himself of his shirt and climbs into bed.

“Of course. She’s a smart dog. She can see the evil in their souls.”

“I wasn’t aware seagulls _had_ souls.”

“Evil ones.” Logan yawns noisily, and they curl up together in the middle of the bed, Veronica’s head comfortably situated on his warm, solid chest. “Still want pancakes?” he whispers into the dark.

“Promises, promises.” She yawns against his skin, then turns it into a bite. “You can make me pancakes tomorrow. Apology pancakes.”

“Apology for what?”

“The washing machine story.”

“Oh, that. I’m onto you, Mars, I figured out why you’re pissed I told that story.”

Veronica shifts her head, looks curiously up at Logan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve told the washing machine story a hundred times,” he replies, “It’s funny and cute, and you come out of it looking like a badass. The only _slightly_ embarrassing part is that _little_ bit in the middle with the key chain and the mariachi band.”

Veronica sits up, propping herself up on one elbow, though her leg is still slung over one of Logan’s. “And the part with the detergent!” she protests, and Logan rolls his eyes.

“I left that part out anyway.”

“You—? That doesn’t even make sense. How could you tell the story if you left out the part with the detergent?”

“I just said that the pillowcase was magenta.”

“That—okay, I guess that would work, but it’s still an embarrassing story.”

“No, but see, it’s _not_ ,” Logan explains like he’s Sherlock freaking Holmes in the middle of a particularly clever wrap-up. “You’re just embarrassed that I told the story in front of the _new District Attorney_.”

Veronica fully sits up now. “Excuse me? What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Logan doesn’t stir from the pillow, but looks pointedly at her. “You have a crush on John Cooper.”

“I do not.”

“It’s okay, you know, I’m not jealous.”

“I do _not_ , and also how dare you?”

“I’m not the one with a crush on the D.A.”

Veronica swats at his chest. “I do not have a crush on John Cooper.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“You blushed when he complimented your dress.”

“It was _hot_ in the ballroom.”

“Was it hot in there or was it just John Cooper?”

“You’re welcome to sleep on the couch you know,” Veronica snaps, glaring down at the still smirking Logan.

Because, okay, maybe Cooper is charming, handsome, and relatively-young-at-thirty-six, but that doesn’t mean Veronica has a _crush_ on him. And _maybe,_ yes, the washing machine story became just slightly more cringe-worthy when recapitulated for the tall, dark, blue-eyed lawyer in a tuxedo. But honestly, what is this... middle school? _A crush_. Please.

“You know, it’s only a big deal if you deny it,” sing-songs Logan.

“I...” Under other circumstances, Veronica would probably just roll her eyes, lie down, and go to sleep, because Logan’s just being a twerp for the sake of riling her up. But circumstances being what they are—mild champagne buzzes and draining social interactions being what _they_ are—Veronica takes a different path. The best defense, after all: “Well what about _you_? Don’t think I didn’t see you flirting with Petra Landros.”

Logan’s eyes grow wide, and his smirk doesn’t so much fade as it changes from knowing to disbelieving. “ _Flirting_?” he scoffs. Not exactly a denial.

Nor should it be. _Flirting_ is Logan’s factory setting. He’s just charming and schmoozy by nature, sometimes ironically and sometimes politely, but it’s like he doesn’t know how to communicate with moderation. He’s either flirting with you or verbally eviscerating you. Or both at the same time, as Veronica is well aware.

She’s not even mad about it at this point, but she folds her arms and says: “Uh-huh.”

“I was being polite,” Logan insists, sitting up as well. “Because you _told_ me to be polite. Specifically instructed it, as I recall.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “I said _don’t tell her your theory about how she murdered her husband_ ; I didn’t tell you to gush over that monstrosity she called an evening gown.”

“I said ‘nice dress.’”

“You said ‘lovely dress.’”

“John Cooper said a lot more about _your_ get-up.”

“He was being nice. He has a _girlfriend_.”

Logan’s mouth is open, he’s poised to throw back another retort, but then he stops. His cleverness falters with his good humor, and for the first time since the banter started, he actually looks a little hurt. Veronica can’t begin to guess why, at least until he corrects her: “Fiancé. John Cooper has a _fiancé.”_

Veronica shakes her head dismissively. “That’s what I _meant_.” 

It pretty much is. Probably. She can’t really remember. It doesn't  _mean_ anything, she just said the wrong word...

It’s totally unfair of Logan to get all serious while she’s fighting tipsy.

She feels like she’s made a tactical error somewhere in this exchange and has to regain some ground, so she falls back on her pillows—arms still folded—and says: “That’s not the point, anyway, the point is that you embarrassed me in front of potential clients.”

She expects Logan to fall back on the pillows too, make some asshole-y comment about how Neptune’s richest denizens will still come to her to bag money-shots, and they’ll both go to sleep pouting.

That’s the predicted reaction, and Veronica knows that she expects it, because when Logan doesn’t follow script, she’s surprised. He just sits there, silent in the dim room, the faint neighborhood lights peeking in through the cracks in the curtains. Then he kicks off the sheets and mutters, “Well I’m sorry I _embarrassed_ you,” and climbs out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To watch T.V.”

Which is stupid, because there’s a perfectly good television in _here_ that he could watch if he actually wanted to. But Logan stalks out of the room, petulant, and Veronica grumbles to herself—equally petulant—because, come on, _he started it._

He leaves the bedroom door just slightly ajar, and the positioning of the bed is such that Veronica, lying on her side, stares directly at the exit when the glow of the living room light appears. Pony starts scuffling about, and there’s the faint electric buzz of the television switching on.

Logan _did_ start it. He was _teasing_ her.

John _Cooper_. Really, now. So fine, the district attorney is handsome and smart, and maybe Veronica gets a little flustered when he dotes on her, just like every other woman does, c’mon, he’s the most eligible semi-bachelor in town, but that doesn’t mean Veronica has a _crush_ on him. What does Logan think of her, anyway?

Or maybe that’s all that Logan meant by a “crush.” But then—

It occurs to Veronica: _is he going to sleep on the couch all night?_

She sits bolt upright, completely ready to cuss out her boyfriend if he thinks he can _sleep on the couch after he just got back from two whole weeks away,_ and she only stops herself because she thinks swearing at him would encourage his bad behavior.

What a jerk. She redacts all previous expressions of appreciation for his sweetness and handsomeness.

“What are you watching?” she shouts across the apartment at Logan.

“ _Seinfeld_ ,” he shouts back, irritable.

What she means to say is, _so come watch it in here,_ but somehow that comes out as: “Well turn it down!”

“Stop shouting, you’re going to wake up the neighbors!”

“So will the T.V. if you don’t turn it down!”

“ _Fine!_ ”

Veronica couldn’t actually hear the T.V. very well before, but she can suddenly hear it even less, so Logan must have complied.

She lies back down, glaring at the ceiling.

All right, so she was teasing him a little, too, with the complaints about the washing machine story. She’d been _slightly_ embarrassed when he told it, but not truly bothered. It’s not an _awful_ story, and she does come out of it looking pretty okay, so... hopefully Logan doesn’t actually believe that he...

He is _not_ going to sleep on that damn couch all night. It’s not going to happen, no. No. _No._ She just spent two weeks alone—or with Pony—in this big stupid bed that Logan insisted upon, she refuses to tolerate another night unnecessarily spent in that fashion, just because Logan is feeling grouchy.

She’d shout _that_ across the apartment, except she doesn’t actually want to wake up the neighbors.

_Come back and cuddle with me, Asshole._

Veronica strains her ears, waiting for the familiar tones of _Seinfeld_ ’s end theme, but she can’t make out anything definite.

Maybe she should pretend to get a midnight snack just to check up on the sleeping arrangements?

She’s still mulling over this option when she hears the crackle of the television being switched off, then Logan’s “Down, girl,” and some floorboard-creaking movement. The lights go out again, and a second later, Logan’s pushing the bedroom door open. He stands just over the threshold for a moment, arms folded across his bare chest, expression unreadable to Veronica in this light, at this distance. Then he sighs.

“This is a dumb fight.”

“The _dumbest_ ,” Veronica agrees so fervently that Logan huffs a breath of laughter, relaxes, and heads along to his side of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he climbs in, and Veronica rolls over to face him.

“Me too.”

“I shouldn’t have...”

“You didn’t.”

Logan uses one finger to tilt her chin up to him, brown eyes moving carefully over her face, like he’s trying to determine how much she means that. Veronica gives him a few seconds, then pulls away and rolls over onto her side, back against his front. Grabs his hand and pulls him along with her.

“You weren’t really going to sleep on the couch, were you?” she whispers, peevish and silly, and Logan chuckles into her hair.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Jackass. Pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sure. We can invite John Cooper over.”

“The couch is still available, you know.” In contradiction, Veronica threads her fingers through his and pulls their hands to rest under her chin, his forearms braced tight against her chest.

They exchange their _I-love-you-good-nights_ and finally go to sleep.

 

In the morning, Logan makes her come twice, and when they’re all sweaty and blissed out and not in the headspace for pancakes, they watch television and eat bowls of cereal in bed, tangled up in the sheets.

 

 

The conversation surrounding the washing machine story and John Cooper is forgotten for the next few days.

On Wednesday, Veronica meets with Cooper, Neptune’s immensely popular, freshly minted district attorney, in the park near the courthouse. He’s on his lunch (though all he has is a cup of coffee) and is consequently dressed for work in a neat grey suit and blue tie, his black hair gelled in waves to one side. He has dark blue eyes, a square jaw, and a wide, handsome mouth, with which he speaks clearly enunciated, unfailingly appropriate words. Always intelligent and grammatically correct, but never too daunting in vocabulary, lest he appear pretentious to the constituency. The charm is there, sure, but it’s carefully polished and honed to be appealing; there’s never anything surprising about it.

They’re meeting so that Veronica can collect the details of the case he mentioned at the party the other night... though she almost hesitates to call this a “case,” because the situation is so quirky:

“I know this story is going to sound a little crazy,” Cooper prefaces his account as they stroll around the U-Bend near the duck pond, “But that’s why I’m hiring you. I _want_ there to be a rational explanation. And I’d like to know what it is.”

“All right,” says Veronica: “shoot.”

“There’s this man who’s been hanging around the courthouse for the last couple weeks. He parks out in the second floor hallway—just sits on the bench in the lobby and looks at the murals. He sits there for a couple of hours every day, doesn’t talk to anyone, just listens to music on his phone and then leaves.”

“O—kay... A little weird, sure, but I’m sure you’ve got plenty of retirees who come by to watch the trials...”

“But he’s not a retiree and he _doesn’t_ watch the trials. As far as I can tell, he’s never even set foot in one of the courtrooms. He just sits there. A couple of the security guards have confronted him, but he says he’s an art aficionado, and the displays there are technically open to the public. It’s just some murals and a few local artifacts—the original county charter, pictures of Neptune in the sixties, that kind of thing.”

“Can’t you kick him out for loitering?”

“The security guards have, a couple of times. He goes, polite as can be, and then he comes back a few days later. They put him through the ringer at the metal detectors every day, but he doesn’t seem to be carrying any weapons. I can’t say that he’s a _threat_ exactly, and he doesn’t hang around anywhere important. He doesn’t harass anyone, it’s just—odd.”

“How long did you say he’s been doing this?”

“About two weeks. But this isn’t the first time he’s shown up. He’s done this before—three or four times in the last couple of years. And every time...”

Cooper trails off, so Veronica prompts him: “What?”

The district attorney smiles bashfully into his paper coffee cup. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“You’ll never know for sure unless you tell me.”

“I think—I think he’s a bad omen.”

Veronica raises an eyebrow. “You’re right. I _do_ think you’re crazy.”

“Look, every time this man shows up, something bad happens.”

“You think he’s responsible?”

“I don’t see how he could be,” Cooper admits. “The first time I remember seeing him was just before that big scandal out of Michael Applewhite's office. That secretary and the defense attorney—back in 2015?”

“I was still in New York then,” Veronica tells him. “What happened?”

“Nothing _too_ serious, but it caused a big to-do around town. Applewhite's receptionist was caught with a married defense attorney working a case our office was prosecuting. The entire office was in chaos doing damage control with the press. There was a mistrial... it was a disaster, and for the two weeks just before, that man was sitting in the hallway lobby on the second floor, every day, just like he is now.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with exposing the affair?”

Cooper shakes his head. “I don’t see how he could. It only made papers because the lawyer’s wife found out and tried to hit her husband with a Lexus.”

“Ah, Neptune.”

“I remember thinking the guy in the hallway was odd, but then he disappeared and—like I said, the office was a mess, we were all on damage control. I didn’t give it a second thought, until last year. He was there _again_ just before Ryan had to step down. You remember, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I remember Ryan Yoder.” _Vividly_. “And I can say for a fact that your mystery hallway man had nothing to do with our former D.A.’s fall from grace.” _That was all me, buddy._

Cooper smiles sadly. “I worked with Yoder for _years_. He was a brilliant lawyer once, and when I first knew him, he would _never_ have accepted bribes—much less _blackmailed_ anyone. But he was corrupted, and I’m grateful for all you’ve done for Neptune’s justice system.”

Veronica smirks. “You know I voted for you, right? You don’t have to win me over to your side.”

“I’m sorry,” Cooper laughs. “I’ve spent the last eight years acting like a lawyer, but I never thought I’d see the day I was accused of acting like a politician. But I’m being sincere.”

“Well, then you won’t mind if I return the gesture and say that Ryan Yoder was a half-rate lawyer and a talented salesman, who used the press to manipulate juries into convictions on cases where no minutely honest D.A. would have even brought charges. He was exclusively interested in his wallet and his celebrity, on top of which, he’s a sexist scumbag and a _terrible_ poker player.”

“You know that I _helped_ you with the Yoder case, right, Veronica?” Cooper grins. “You don’t have to win me over to your side.”

Veronica shrugs, defensive. “He and the cops ignored all the physical evidence in the Bonnie DeVille murder case and went after Logan because they knew it would make them look good to send Aaron Echolls’s son to prison. Yoder deserves whatever he gets and worse.”

“I know.” Cooper sighs heavily. “I _did_ advise against charging Logan, for what it’s worth.”

 _And to think—if Yoder had listened, he might still have a job right now. Life’s funny like that_.

“So,” Veronica says instead, “This man was at the courthouse immediately before two big scandals rocked the Neptune courts, but didn’t have anything to do with either of them. Couldn’t it be a coincidence?”

“Yes, of course, and it probably is. But there are other things, too. Little things, but—for instance, he was there the week Judge Manoff had a heart attack... the week Applewhite and his wife got in a screaming match in the cafeteria... once, when the water lines broke...”

“Vandalism?”

“No, just a faulty sensor, but _still_...”

Veronica shakes her head. She can’t quite buy into a mysterious man sitting outside the cheesy “This is Community” murals, purely as a herald of destruction. On the other hand, she can’t quite buy anyone wanting to _study_ the cheesy “This is Community” murals either.

“I know this is stupid,” Cooper presses on. “So just—put my mind at ease. Run a background check on the guy so that I know I’m not actively hallucinating and that he’s not, y’know...”

“A vampire?”

“Exactly.”

“All right.” Veronica does her best to suppress all signs of amusement. “I’ll check the guy out... make sure he’s not popping up in pictures of pre-Watergate Nixon. But out of curiosity—why don’t you just ask one of the deputies to do it? You’re the D.A., I’m sure they’d be glad to do you a favor.”

“True,” Cooper agrees, “Call me a politician, but I’d prefer to keep the terms ‘vampire’ and ‘bad omen’ out of my dialogues with Sheriff Langdon’s deputies.”

“Your choice,” says Veronica, “But unlike me, a deputy won’t openly mock you for it.”

 

 

Usually, such a case would rate the dinner conversation headlines, but it so happens that Veronica’s second appointment that day lands her the assignment of proving that a renowned chimpanzee actor has been replaced by an impostor—a case that naturally tests both Logan’s and Veronica’s substantial reserves of wit. As a result, except for Veronica’s mention that she met with Cooper and Logan’s inquiry as to whether or not Cooper offered her his letterman jacket, they don’t discuss the matter until the following Saturday.

With Keith chasing down a lead in the Valley, Veronica has been relegated to covering a couple of weekend appointments in the office. Around noon, Logan brings Pony and lunch from _El Paraiso_. Then, while the dog naps in the patch of sunlight by the window in Veronica’s office, Logan stretches out on the couch at the far side of the room, tossing the baseball from her father’s desk into the air and catching it—over and over and over and over again.

After a while, Veronica looks up from the rather dry research on her laptop screen to watch him. She likes Logan in that t-shirt. It’s all grey and a little tight (maybe a lot tight) and his arms look absolutely delectable, extended above him as he pushes the ball up, rolling it off his fingers in a smooth, straight line, nearly to the ceiling, and then catching it easily again, the only sign of effort in the slight flexing of his biceps.

It’s a very nice t-shirt.

Nonetheless:

“Would you knock it off?” she complains, while Logan tosses the ball up once more. He turns his head to look at her, releases the ball and catches it again without looking.

“Is my display of athletic prowess distracting you?”

“Athletic prowess? You’re literally _lying down_.”

“I could do jumping jacks if you prefer.”

“Or you could take a hike.”

Logan snorts, catches the ball one last time, and then swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits up. “Working on the Mighty Joe Young case again?”

“Nope, still waiting on the DNA test. Today it’s the...” She barely finishes the sentence without a sigh: “...feeding habits of Southern California desert birds.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It really isn’t.”

“What’s it for?”

“I have to infiltrate a bird-watching club.”

“Ah, a big national security issue, then.”

“The N.S.A. came to me directly,” agrees Veronica solemnly.

“A bird-watching club… so khaki shorts and hiking boots?” Logan squints one eye: “I’m picturing an Ellie Sattler get-up.” He hops up from the couch and comes around to Veronica’s side of the desk, crossing his arms and leaning against it. “You can wear one of those big ugly field hats.”

“Why are you always trying to get me to wear ugly hats?”

“Because it’s cute.”

“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

The discussion is cut short by the vibration of Veronica’s cell on the desk beside her. They both glance over to see the caller ID. “Oh look, it’s your boyfriend!” says Logan, gleeful, and Veronica glowers at him, even as she picks up the phone and answers: “Veronica Mars.”

“Veronica, hi, it’s John Cooper.” (Cooper always sounds like he’s campaigning. He has perfected that politician sound that’s so popular: that, _we’re business associates, but we’re also old buddies from college_ tone of voice that’s especially appealing when neither is true.) “How are you?”

“Doing well, thanks. I’m sure you’re eager for updates on your case...”

“I am, yes, are you in the office today?”

 “For a couple of hours, yeah.”

“Excellent. I have a two-thirty tee time, but I’ll be in your area in—the next twenty minutes?”

Logan swings around to stand behind Veronica, the chair back between them, his hands braced against the edge of the desk on either side of her. She feels his warm breath in her hair and then his lips pressed to the crown of her head. “That should work,” she says into the phone. “You have the address?”

“Of course.”

“Good. When you get here, take the stairs and go left.”

“Thank-you. See you in twenty.”

Veronica hangs up, and Logan straightens, turns her swivel chair back to face him. “Do you have a date?” he asks.

“Cooper’s coming by for an update on his case in about twenty minutes.”

“Well there go my plans for the desk.”

He plants one hand on each of her chair's arms and bends down to kiss her lips.

It’s not at all chaste, and he tastes a little like salsa. Doesn’t so much tease her mouth open as demand it, drawing her tongue out almost at once, hot, wet, sloppy. Raunchy. Not the way people should kiss in the daylight—it physically reminds her of dark rooms and twisted up sheets. Her fingers find soft fabric and the hard muscles beneath, and several breathless moments pass before they release one another. She keeps her eyes closed, Logan still tucked in against her, nose to her cheek, lips a hairsbreadth away from hers; she feels his eyelashes blinking slow on her skin.

“Mind if I stick around and scope out the competition?” His voice is a low, warm growl.

“If I hear you slipping Pony any attack words, you’re dead meat.”

“Pony only attacks if she sees a threat.”

“Only attacks if she sees a threat—why does that sound so familiar?”

“It made the short-list for our matching tattoo ideas.” Logan sighs and pulls back, and Veronica opens her eyes, smiling lazily up at him.

“I’ll do Ellie Sattler if you go all Ian Malcolm with the black leather.”

“What is it with you and trying to get me into slinky black pants?”

Veronica bites her lip. “It’s _cute_.”

 

By the time John Cooper shows up, Logan has been ordered to maintain a minimum distance of ten feet and is on the couch again. He’s sitting up straight this time with that perfect military posture of his, messing around on the tablet, while his knee bobs up and down rapidly to the protests of the floorboards in the old building.

Cooper knocks and waits for a “Come in” before he pushes the door open, and Veronica rises from her seat behind the desk to shake his hand. He’s wearing a black mesh Nike polo and khakis, dressed for the two-thirty tee-time, no doubt, and he pairs his double-handed hand-shake with, “Veronica. Always a pleasure.”

“Good to see you again.” She gestures over his shoulder. “You remember Logan.”

“Oh of course.” Logan rises, shakes his hand, the usual. Cooper chuckles. “You told that amusing story the other night—about Veronica and the—what was it? The washing machine?”

“Oh did Logan tell that story?” asks Veronica, really selling the innocence. “I’d forgotten.”

Cooper turns back to face Veronica. “It was certainly enlightening. I had no idea a private investigator’s life was so... so...”

“Embarrassing?” Veronica supplies, earning her an eye-roll from Logan.

“Chaotic,” says Cooper. His gaze lands on Pony, who—incidentally—has not woken up. “Is this your dog? What’s his name?”

“Her,” Veronica corrects automatically, then tries to soften it with: “Her name’s Pony.”

“For short,” says Logan. “They couldn’t fit her full name on the tags.” Cooper’s smile is a touch confused, though characteristically polite. “Well,” Logan goes on, “You two have work to discuss. I’ll wait out there.” He gestures toward the antechamber.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s no need for that,” says Cooper. “Nothing too confidential here—just a routine background check.”

“Well, that’s how the washing machine story started, and look how _that_ ended.” Logan collects the tablet from the couch, gives a quick nod and a courteous, “Good to see you again,” and then departs. When he’s gone, Veronica resumes her seat, and Cooper takes the chair opposite her.

“He seems like a good guy,” says the D.A. conversationally.

“He’s got me fooled anyway.” She closes her laptop and places the prepped file folder on top of it. “So about the case: I’ve ID’d your mystery man. Does the name Boris Slattery ring any bells?”

Cooper shakes his head. “And you’d think it would.”

“He’s thirty-three, a free-lance programmer, doesn’t have a criminal record, nothing suspicious on the surface. Never married, lives with his orange tabby in the Greenwood apartments.”

“I know the area. It’s a little bit of a drive to the courthouse just to sit on a bench and stare at murals. What did you say he did for a living?”

“Programming. Mostly freelance web design. Degree in Computer Science from Hearst.”

“Is there anything to support his art-lover claim?”

“That’s a little difficult to prove. He ‘likes’ Jackson Pollock on Facebook, but that’s a far cry from the 'art' at the courthouse.”

“So...” Cooper shifts in his chair. “There’s nothing here?”

“He’s not on any watch-lists, and he’s got no known ties to organized crime or terrorist groups or anything like that,” Veronica says. And because she can’t quite help herself: “His E-Harmony profile _does_ list him as a ‘harbinger of doom,’ but...”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks.” Cooper checks his watch. “And _I_ should get going. I’m golfing with half of the Community Planning Committee this afternoon, and they’re surprisingly rigid about punctuality, considering how long it’s taken them to agree on plans for the new hiking trails by Soledad Beach.”

Veronica follows him out to the next room, where Logan is seated at Mac’s desk, apparently absorbed in whatever he’s scrolling through on the iPad.

“Oh, hey,” says Cooper over his shoulder, still addressing Veronica, “Does your fiancée golf? He should join us.”

“My—oh. Um.” She locks eyes with Logan, who’s eyebrows are practically at his hairline, and Veronica hastily brushes off the incorrect title. Or tries to, anyway, because Logan’s mouth twitches in this smug way that tells Veronica he’s enjoying her discomfort. _Asshole_. “You know,” she coos, “he _does_ enjoy golf. Logan, you should go! I’m sure there’s some clothes you could rent at _the club_.”

Since Cooper has now turned to face Logan, her boyfriend is compelled to refrain from sticking out his tongue at her—as he obviously wants to—and instead must arrange his features into something resembling polite disappointment. Only _resembling_ , because—well, it’s Logan.

“Sounds like a good time, but we’ve got dinner with your dad tonight, _Honey,_ and I’ve got to prep.” To Cooper: “We’re a progressive household. _I_ do all the cooking.”

“He does _not_ ,” says Veronica, while Logan gets up and comes along to the front of the desk. “All he ever makes are gross power smoothies.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” says Cooper. “Any time though, Logan, it’s a standing invitation.” He does one of those aggressively friendly pointing gestures, and Logan reacts as though he’s been stabbed with a needle.

“I’ll be in touch,” says Veronica, escorting the D.A. to the door.

“Thanks.” He nods, “Veronica,” then over her shoulder, “Logan.”

“ _Coop_ ,” replies Logan, leaning against Mac’s desk, ankles crossed and hands curled over the edge.

When he’s gone, Veronica leans against the closed door and pouts across the office at Logan. “You didn’t want to golf?” she teases. “And here I thought for _sure_ you would. Maybe you could put our names in for membership at the Club.”

Logan ignores her teasing. “You didn’t correct him,” he points out, smirking.

Veronica pretends: “Correct him on what?”

“You know what.”

_Ah yes, the technically inaccurate use of the ‘f-word.’_

“ _You_ didn’t correct him either.”

“He was addressing you.”

“Well I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” Logan pushes off the desk. “It was all a ploy anyway.”

“What was?”

“Calling me your _fiancée._  You're not wearing a ring; he's got no reason to think we're engaged. He was just trying to cause trouble.” Logan meanders across the office towards her.

“And why would John Cooper want to cause trouble?”

“Same reason he invited me golfing. To scope out the competition.” He cozies up to her at the door.

Veronica scoffs. “So not only do _I_ supposedly have a ‘crush’ on John Cooper, but John Cooper supposedly has a crush on me? Careful Logan—” He’s got a palm flat on the door behind her, leaning like he should be asking her to prom, “—this is beginning to sound like a conspiracy theory.”

“Everyone has a crush on you,” he says with a weary sigh. “It’s my cross to bear.”

“Poor you.” _I can’t imagine what_ that _would be like. Goddamn Kimmy Blake-Gallagher._ Veronica gives him a consoling peck on the lips anyway, then changes subjects: “You got stuff this afternoon?”

“Yeah. You wanna meet at your dad’s or go together?”

“Go together, I’m headed home soon anyway. Five-ish?”

“Uh-huh.” He straightens up and does one of those loud, fingerless whistles out of the side of his mouth. “Ponygirl Curtis Mars-Echolls—time to hit the road!”

Veronica rolls her eyes as Pony trots out to meet him. “She’s responding to the whistle you know, not her name. I told you, that name is for formal purposes only. She can't recognize it.”

“You just don’t have enough faith in her genius.” Logan collects his jacket and the leash from Mac’s desk—slips the first around his shoulders and stuffs the second in a pocket.

“Use the leash,” scolds Veronica, moving away from the door to give him access. “You spoil her letting her run around without it.”

“It’s just from here to the car. She wants to be _free_ , Veronica.”

“It’s rude to other people.”

“She’s well behaved, and what do I care about other people?” He kisses her on the cheek and opens the door. “See you at home.”

 

 

 

“I’m gonna call Nancy at the water company on Monday.”

It’s later that evening, after barbecue night at Keith’s, during which Veronica went over the basics—and then the mundane minutiae—of John Cooper’s case concerning the uncanny Boris Slattery and the County Courthouse murals. Her father whistled the _X-Files_ theme and Logan unknowingly plagiarized Veronica’s Nixon joke, but neither of them had anything particularly helpful to add, except unwittingly, when Logan tried to decide which _X-Men_ character Slattery would have to be to burst a water pipe.

Now they’re home and getting ready for bed at the staggering hour of ten-thirty p.m., and, while Veronica stands in front of the dresser, rifling through Logan’s shirt drawer for appropriate sleepwear, she makes the declaration: “I’m gonna call Nancy at the water company on Monday.”

Logan—throwing discarded laundry into the hamper—spares himself a moment from his task for sarcasm. “Tell her I said ‘hi?’”

“Nancy’s married to the old fire chief. She’s a friend of my dad’s,” Veronica explains, post obligatory eye-roll. “I bet she’ll get me records on the pipe that burst in the courthouse.”

Logan finishes up with the clothes and casts a skeptical look in Veronica’s direction. “You really think Boris the Mural Man made it explode?”

“ _No_.” Veronica finally decides that Logan’s comfy red _California Republic_ tee is most to her taste this evening and pulls it over her head. When she pops through on the other side, Logan is ridding himself of boxers in favor of worn black sweat pants. “I just think it’s odd that a thirty-three year old man drives all the way down to the courthouse every day for three weeks and then spends the whole time listening to music on his phone.”

Logan shrugs. “Sounds like jury duty to me.”

“I checked, believe me.”

“So how do you know he’s just listening to music? Maybe it’s spiffy surveillance technology or something.” Logan walks around to turn on the nightstand lamp, then heads over to hit the switch on the wall.

“I checked that too. Scanned for bugs, sat next to him, planted a bug of my own and everything.” Veronica shakes her head. “He was just listening to Alison Krauss.”

“I guess there are worse ways to spend unemployment.”

Veronica goes to clean up. Brushes her teeth, washes her face, debates about her hair and then decides to leave it down. When she returns to the bedroom, Logan is halfway under the covers, sitting up and playing Sudoku on the iPad. Veronica climbs in with him.

“It’s weird though, right?”

“What? The courthouse guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I mean, he’s there _just before_ two big scandals break, but has no connection to either?”

“Weird, yeah, but I guess it depends on how often he’s actually there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he’s there all the time, but he only stands out when chaos descends around him.”

Logan turns to set the tablet down on the nightstand beside him and, consequently, is facing the opposite direction when Veronica asks: “Do you want to get married?”

Logan pauses. Shifts back, and looks at her, lips pursed and amused, as his hands fall to his lap. “ _There’s_ a non-sequitur for you.” Veronica jabs him with her toe under the blankets, and he tilts his head curiously. “Are you _asking_ or just asking?”

“Just asking.”

“Well—do _you_ want to get married?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

She jabs him again with her toe.

Logan sighs. “Yes.”

“Well you don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”

“Should I have employed jazz hands?”

“You’ve never asked me.”

"About jazz hands?"

"To marry you."

“You’ve never asked me either.” She gives him a third toe jab, and Logan leans back against the headboard. “I don’t know—maybe it seems like tempting fate.”

Veronica can understand _that_. “Yeah.”

“Do _you_ want to get married?” Logan asks again: casual, if a little more earnest, when he does.

“I don’t know. Not especially.”

“Well there you go.”

He rotates away from her and switches off the light, clearly understanding this to be the end of the discussion. They settle in together, Veronica draped comfortably over his chest. The only real light in the room is the vaguely eerie green glow of the charge lights on their phones.

“Things—things are good now,” Veronica begins after a moment, irrationally quieter in the darkness, “and it just feels like, if we got married—something would happen to fuck it up.”

“Yeah.” Logan shifts, his lips against her forehead now. “I don’t even think we’d split up or anything. More like—one of us would get a brain tumor, or a piano would fall on our heads or something.”

Veronica snorts. “I have a degree in psychology, and the fact that we think this way is... _literally_ crazy.”

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you,” says Logan. “And, according to popular wisdom, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, so by that logic, we’re actually very _sane_.”

“Because pianos always fall?”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“That’s a logical fallacy, you know.”

“Maybe, Columbia, or maybe piano pulleys just suck.”

Veronica circles her arm over his middle, draws him a little closer. “They do. Which is why I’m calling Nancy at the water company on Monday.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means I don’t know how to handle bad omens, but I can deal with bad people.”

Logan kisses the top of her head, and his voice drops an octave: “I have no idea what _that_ means either, but it’s kinda hot.”

Veronica tilts her head, teases Logan’s lips with own. “Oh?” She stretches, draws his lower lip out between her teeth, then leaves a trail of light, breathy marks over his mouth.

“Mhm.”

She shifts, brings one leg over his and props herself up on one elbow. “Only _kinda_ hot?”

Their lips sort of brush against each other, quick tastes. She nuzzles against the bristles of his unshaven face, tastes the stark minty-ness of toothpaste. He’s fresh, soapy-clean; every bit of him a little bit of a challenge, the prickle of short hair, the angles of his body, solid muscles—everything hard, but so warm.

He grabs her hips and pulls her astride him, and she kisses him harder, pinning him to the bed with her palms flat on his chest.

They’re rough, consuming kisses. His mouth is hot—fucking fire, really, but she shivers when his teeth graze along her tongue in that way. Those are his hands on her hips, pulling her down, then doing something with her underwear. Yanking at it, so the coarse lace scratches at her hips, and she wants to help him, but even more, she wants to keep kissing him.

She pulls away to flip hair out of her face, and Logan draws her back to his mouth at once, keeps his hand firm on her neck and kisses up into her mouth, greedy and hungry but laced with all his favorite ways of making her moan. She recognizes the tactics, and they’re—just... _God_. Tingling warmth builds low in her body when he pulls her hips lower still, grinding her against him.

It’s long, desperate seconds, and then they both gasp for breath and pull back, and Veronica finds her panties mostly off her ass and Logan’s sweats riding low on his hips.

She maneuvers the rest of the way out of her underwear while Logan kicks off his pants, then helps her out of the t-shirt.

When they’re naked and cast in the faint green light from the phones, Logan’s eyes and hands trace familiar paths up her body, no marveling or wondering, just lust. When he reaches her face, Veronica bends down to have his mouth again, but he ducks away just in time, waves her off with a bristly kiss on her jaw. He wants to say something, so Veronica waits, suspended over him, hands buried beneath the pillow under his head.

“Look,” Logan begins, low, and Veronica has to remind herself to listen, because he’s strangely beautiful in the green shadows, “it doesn’t matter if we—get married... or don’t. It doesn’t make a difference for us.” His thumb brushes over her lips, and Veronica studies the quiet intensity of his expression. The firm set of his mouth: assertive words, touched with the softest traces of caution. He explains: “Either way we end up together.”

This last sends a swell of emotion through Veronica, so strong that she aches with it. She fixes her stare at his collar bone, swallows thickly and knows she’s smiling, wild and obvious. He tucks her hair behind her ear, so he can get a better look. Eight different responses flicker through her brain—three of which are just variations on “ _Please fuck me immediately_ ”—but the words come out differently, some of the feeling bleeding through when she quips: “That sounds like a dumb boy reason not to buy me a diamond.”

Logan smiles. Sits up and kisses her. His fingers work cleverly between her legs, teeth move down her neck, and she hears him mumble something that sounds like, “ _You never buy_ me _any diamonds either._ ”

 

* * *

 

It’s a few days later, Wednesday morning, a brisk, grey six-thirty a.m., that Veronica strolls into the kitchen and yawningly inquires of Logan: “Do you know who Melanie Gossner is?”

Logan looks up from the—rather depressing—CNN homepage he’d been reading as accompaniment to his morning coffee and steel cut oatmeal, and his intended response—a sarcastic, _good morning to you too_ —dies on his lips as he takes her in.

“Are you sick?” he asks automatically.

Veronica, sleep-rumpled but otherwise intact, pauses in her sluggish progression to the coffee machine. “Huh? No. Why?”

Logan takes a moment to answer that question for himself, to understand why his brain leapt to that conclusion without clueing him in on the intermediate steps. When he finally catches up, he says: “You’re wearing pajamas.”

Veronica glances down at her ensemble: blue pinstriped pajama trousers and a grey _Columbia_ t-shirt (her own), both of which she must have put on at some point in the last thirty minutes since Logan left her naked in bed. She looks back up at Logan.

“So?”

“You never wear pajamas.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you steal _my_ clothes.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Literally every night.”

“I wear pajamas sometimes.”

“Only if you’re sick.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sick, I just needed clothes and grabbed something out of the drawer.” She slouches over to the coffee machine, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Stop interrogating me, it’s too early. And do you know who Melanie Gossner is?”

“I ran out of t-shirts, didn’t I?”

“What?”

“I ran out of t-shirts, that’s why you’re wearing pajamas.”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Fine,” Veronica grumbles. “Yes. You’re out of t-shirts. Do laundry.”

Logan reverts his stare to the tablet in hand. “Who’s Melanie Gossner?”

Veronica, having fixed her coffee to her satisfaction, joins him at the kitchen table. Her voice is scratchy and mostly asleep, as she says: “She’s the assistant that Assistant District Attorney Applewhite fired for fraternizing with opposing council.”

Logan smirks and looks up to see Veronica watching him, her chin propped up in the palm of her hand. Her eyes are half-closed, and her skin is pale, lips extra rosy as they are first thing in the morning. She’s got a hazy little smile on her face. “You figured out the water pipe thing?” he guesses.

Veronica nods. “I have a theory.”

“Piano pulleys suck?”

“Consistently unreliable,” she confirms.

“You want some oatmeal?”

“I’ll make toast later.”

“I don’t remember the Melanie Gossner scandal. Was it recent?”

“2015.”

“You can tie it to _Boris, Lover of Bad Art_?”

“I’m working on it.”

“But you know he didn’t have anything to do with the last D.A. getting kicked out, because _you_ were responsible for that, so...”

Veronica’s smile grows broader—a fully smug grin, which tells him she’s figured something out and feels clever about it. She sips her coffee. “Do you remember why I went after D.A. Yoder?”

“Because my birthday was coming up?”

 “ _And_ because earlier that month, there was this letter to the editor in the _Neptune Tribune_ accusing Yoder of doctoring records to cover up illegal interrogations.” She yawns dramatically. “The story didn’t gain traction, so nothing really came of it. I looked into the claims, but there was never any real evidence to support them...”

“So?”

“In the process I _did_ find out about the bribes and blackmail,” says Veronica.

“So you have a theory?”

“I have a theory.”

“And when did you come up with this theory?”

“About ten minutes ago, when you woke me up banging around the kitchen.”

“You’re welcome.”

Veronica pushes away from the table, collects her coffee mug and starts back toward the bedroom: “I’m taking Pony to the vet at five, you can cover dinner?”

“Yeah—oh, hey...” Veronica stops at the beginning of the hall, turns back toward him. “You wrap on the chimp case last night?”

She smiles sleepily. “The new guy was a fake. The real Clementine had too many laugh-lines, and they retired him to the Oakland zoo. Traded him in for a newer model named Ike.”

“Laugh lines?”

“I can’t make this shit up.”

She sends him a parting wave and then slouches on back to the bedroom.

 

 

Logan comes home late Thursday evening, but Veronica is on a stake-out with Pony, so the apartment is empty anyway.

He’s come straight from the gym, so he indulges in a leisurely shower, draws it out longer than usual, but Veronica still isn’t home by the time he’s dried off and dressed in sweats. Veronica will have eaten, he assumes, since it’s close to ten o’clock, so he fixes himself a sandwich. Then he sets about completing a handful of minor chores—throws in a load of laundry, refills Pony’s bowls, and runs the dishwasher—before finally settling in on the living room couch with a stack of work: inspection reports he’s supposed to know backwards and forwards by Friday. He works through them steadily, with the television humming quietly in the background.

Close to midnight, Logan hears the scuffle of claws on the front walkway (Pony), followed by some general griping noises (Veronica), and he switches off the T.V.

In bursts Veronica a moment later, bringing a rush of energy back into the apartment. Pony skips in behind her, still on the leash, and Veronica somehow manages to unhook the dog while juggling her purse, the black messenger bag on her hip, the camera case around her neck, a shopping bag, and an airmail delivery package.

Logan sets aside his work and vacates the couch to assist her, taking the purse and messenger bag first, while Veronica sets the package on the shelf by the door and then pulls her camera over her head to place it on top.

“What’s that?” Logan nods at the mail.

“New surveillance equipment for work. Special ordered from Japan.”

“ _Fancy_.”

“Uh-huh.” Pony, satisfied with the ear-scratching she has by this time received from Logan, trots over to her recently filled food and water dishes, and Logan follows Veronica into the kitchen, leaving her various accessories on the table.

She’s set the last item—a brown paper shopping bag—on the tile countertop and is chugging a glass of water, hip-checked against the island, when Logan joins her there. She’s in dark jeans, black Chucks, and a forest green button up blouse under that little black leather jacket he likes, her short blond hair falling in waves just above the shoulders. Loose, flowy clothes are fashionable these days, but Veronica favors everything _tight_ , hugging her deceptively small body, and Logan’s not complaining.

She puts the glass by the sink and rotates back to him.

“I got presents for us,” she says, and nudges the shopping bag a little closer to him. She’s got a coy smile on her face, and Logan gets the sense his _present_ will be in the tone of white elephant.

“Pretty small for a Porsche, but I know you’re resourceful.”

“Just open it,” Veronica orders, and Logan pulls the bag closer, rustling through wax paper to withdraw—

An orange polo shirt.

He frowns at Veronica, trying to gauge the level of sincerity behind the gift before he reacts because—truthfully, this thing is pretty ugly.

Veronica’s eyes are wide and earnest as she asks: “Do you like it?”

“Well,” says Logan uncertainly, “It’s...” But then he catches the way a muscle in her jaw clenches, like she’s biting down on her own tongue, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “What the hell is this thing?”

Veronica breaks fully, bursting into laughter as though she’s contrived some terribly clever joke and the punchline is unattractive sportswear. Logan really doesn’t get it.

“It’s a polo shirt!” she says gleefully, and Logan scowls.

“It’s orange.”

“It’s _peach_.”

“Are we going to burn it?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t call it much of a present.”

“Logan. You know how I’m working this _super_ important case for a powerful and influential public figure...?” (Logan begins to guess where she’s going with this, and he hates it, he hates it so much), “ _Well_ , this Powerful and Influential Public Figure has an eight a.m. tee-time this Saturday and I need you to tag along so you can interrogate his golfing buddies.”

“Hell on Earth: now I know what it looks like.” Logan drops the shirt to the counter. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because I’ve figured out the _what_ and Mac’s working on the _how,_ but I need you to help me out with the _why_.”

“Seems like you had the easy part. Maybe _you_ should go golfing.”

Veronica rolls her eyes, takes back the polo and begins to fold. “ _I_ was up until three a.m. pouring over public records, tech blogs, and the half-rate gossip columns that pass for newspapers in this town. On top of which, I snuck into _two_ gated communities today, listened to _hours_ of surveillance recordings, and was called a ‘hussy’ by a woman who once tried to run over her husband with a Lexus.”

“It’s a wonder you had time to go ugly shirt shopping.”

Veronica carries on: “I _also_ don’t have a ‘standing invitation’ to join _the guys_ for a game, whereas _you_ do. Which is super sexist, by the way.”

“I agree,” says Logan. “You shouldn’t stand for it.” Veronica shoots him a look, and he sighs. He already knows he’s going to help her. “All right, all right. Eight a.m.?”

“Saturday,” she confirms.

“I expect pancakes for breakfast.”

Veronica grins. “All right, so the guy you’re going to be looking at is another lawyer in Cooper’s office. Jared Jorgenson. He hated our disgraced former D.A. Yoder, and he interned at the same firm as the defense attorney in the other scandal, so I’m guessing there was some kind of personal grudge.”

“Sounds like you already have all the answers.”

“I have _theories_. I _want_ answers.” Veronica begins pulling the wax paper stuffing out of the shopping bag, smoothing it out on the counter and then folding it up in that steady, methodical way of hers. “Just poke at him and get him to dish on office politics.”

“Can I use a stick?”

She ignores this. “Besides Jorgenson and Cooper, you’ll be golfing with Michael Applewhite—the assistant district attorney—and Boyd Wiggin, who owns all those car dealerships on the north side of town. He’s Jorgenson’s father-in-law.”

“Okay, but which one is Sean Regan and who’s blackmailing Carmen?”

Veronica leans across the counter to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t try to butter me up.”

“You don’t like butter?” she asks innocently, then slips around the corner of the counter and circles her arms around his neck. “One last thing: you’re going to have to text Cooper tomorrow and weasel an invitation out of him. Think you can do that?”

Logan blinks.

_This woman sometimes._

“I don’t even have an _invite_? You want me to invite myself to be the _fifth_ with a bunch of lawyers?”

“Is that bad?”

Logan glares; Veronica simpers.

“How do you even know when Cooper’s golfing if he didn’t invite me?” 

“I hacked his Google calendar. His security questions are a joke, incidentally.”

“Wait—I’m confused, I thought John Cooper was the _client,_ not a suspect _._ ”

“Oh, you know me.” Another peck on the lips and a wicked smile: “Trust no one.”

“Is that why you’re having _me_ interrogate your suspect instead of just asking Coop to do it?”

“Sort of.” She twists her hands together behind his neck, tightening the loop around him and drawing her body closer. “Cooper is smart and handsome; he can get people to vote for him. _You_ are clever and hot—you can get people to do whatever you want.”

She kisses him a little slower this time; he mumbles over her lips: “Still haven’t convinced you to drink one of my smoothies.”

“You put kale in those; completely ruins the taste.”

“It’s a...”

“Swear to God, if you say ‘ _superfood_ ,’ I will _leave_ you.”

“Mmm, you’re bluffing.”

Veronica gives him one last kiss, then drops to the flats of her feet, hands falling to his chest—a more manageable position, given height differences and a lack of high heels. Logan sighs. “Well, what’s _your_ present? Because mine _sucked_.”

“Huh?”

“You said you got _us_ presents.”

“Oh.” Veronica smirks, devious. “Watching you dress up like a square and waltz around in peach-colored jock-wear? Totally _my_ present. _Your_ present...” Her black fingernails scrape against his shirt, “involves leather.”

Logan knows better than to take the bait. “It’s a bugged wrist-watch, isn’t it,” he deadpans.

Veronica laughs and shrugs off her jacket. She doesn’t place it neatly aside as he would expect of her, but lets it fall to the floor.

“Nuh-uh.”

“A belt with a camera in the buckle.”

“No.”

She sidesteps Logan, disentangling herself from her position between him and the counter.

“Luxury beer cozy?”

She’s facing him, takes a step backwards, her hands reaching for the top button of her blouse.

“Nope.”

The second button goes, then the third, and she takes two more steps back toward the hallway. Still, Logan feels this must be a trap.

Though he’s starting to care less and less.

Fourth button, fifth button, she has her eyes locked on his, almost to the mouth of the hall.

“You just gonna stand there?” she asks at button six, and at button seven, the last one, Logan takes a calculatedly lazy step in her direction, arms folded.

“Leather, huh? I’m all out of guesses.

She slides the blouse down her shoulders, tosses it a safe distance aside in a characteristic move to avoid tripping—inherently practical, always—and yes, that’s leather lingerie. Black satin with a leather overlay, with something shiny and silver—a zipper, right between her breasts. Sexy and _pretty_ —if he ever _does_ get to buy her a ring, it’s going to be damn difficult finding something the right combination of badass and beautiful, and—

He’s three steps closer before he realizes he’s moved, but Veronica is that much nearer: flushed and grinning, in her fucking skinny jeans and sneakers and a black leather bra.

“I hope you expensed that,” he says, missing _nonchalant_ by an impressively few degrees. Veronica is laughing as she turns and leads the way back to the bedroom, calling, “ _Just wait till you see the other half.”_

 

 

“So, Echolls, play much golf?”

Logan hates everyone in this bar.

Or, more accurately, everyone on this teeing ground.

He wishes it were a bar.

Then there’d be booze.

Booze might make this more tolerable.

Slightly.

Jared Jorgenson is the one who asks the question—Veronica’s mark, and the reason Logan has to spend his Saturday morning on a golf course with _respectable_ folk. Logan resents the guy already.

Jorgenson is in his late twenties, wearing offensively bad plaid slacks and a mint green polo shirt as he pulls on a pair of black and white synthetic gloves. It’s a bright and cheerful morning—it’ll be hot later, but it’s only a few minutes after eight now, and the air is crisp and cool. Logan just wants to get this over with.

Besides Jorgenson, the rest of the wolf pack includes: Michael Applewhite (another lawyer, about forty, greeted Logan as though they were old friends and called him fucking “ _Lo”_ ), Boyd Wiggin (sixty-something, spray-tanned, owns a handful of car dealerships, spent the entire walk to the tee complaining about the club’s sinking membership standards—a topic Logan suspects will follow them through all eighteen holes), and, of course, Neptune’s District Attorney extraordinaire, John Cooper (who doesn’t _completely_ suck, so Logan probably wouldn’t hate the guy if he weren’t so obviously jones-ing for Veronica).

To his credit, Cooper seems to suspect that Logan’s reasons for joining them are neither social nor athletic, and he keeps giving Logan these little tips about their companions.

“Jared’s a bit of a gambler,” Cooper helpfully informed him, twenty minutes ago in the parking lot. “And he’s got a wife with expensive tastes, so he likes to win.”

—Which doesn’t explain how he might be tied to Veronica’s case, though it _does_ assign pretty clear motive to Jorgenson’s deceptively casual question: “So, Echolls, you play much golf?”

“Now and then,” says Logan, pondering the morality of fucking with a gambling junky. “We’ve got a putting machine in the Rec Room that some of us mess around with occasionally.”

“Personally, I think it’s kind of a boring game,” says Jorgenson. His custom golf shoes and personalized club bag would suggest otherwise. He leans closer to Logan and, while the other three men are discussing the merits of their respective drivers, mutters: “Care to make things a little more interesting?”

“Don’t let my son-in-law hustle you, Logan,” chips in Boyd Wiggin, to which Jorgenson chuckles nervously. “My daughter tells me he’s out here three or four days a week, working on his swing.”

Cooper raises his eyebrows at Logan, a _what did I tell you_ expression that Logan pretends not to see. They’re not buddies. He’s not here to _bond_.

“Jared’s more of a tennis player,” remarks Applewhite, selecting a ball and placing it on the tee. By some sacred order that they’ve all arrived at—Logan doesn’t really understand—Applewhite is going to tee off first, and he prepares to do so, still speaking: “But I’ve always loved golf. My dad used to bring me here as a kid. This very course. It was a lot different back then, though.”

Applewhite is a lanky, fair-haired man, just beginning to bald and dressed in khakis, a striped shirt, and a powder-blue sun-visor. They’re all wearing those stupid sun-visors, come to think of it, and Logan would feel out of place with his white _U.S. Navy_ baseball cap, except that he already feels out of place about every other aspect of this experience so—the hat is low priority.

Applewhite examines his club with familiar affection and runs through a few practice swings, continuing his nostalgic monologue: “They didn’t allow kids out here on weekends, but Dad got them to bend the rules for me.”

He squares up, swings, and the ball disappears into the blue, reappears well onto the fairway, and the others all murmur their approval.

“ _My_ old man never could’ve afforded a place like this,” grunts Boyd Wiggin, shuffling up and placing his ball. In his sixties, Wiggin is broad-chested and well-kept, in the sense that he is, obviously, kept. Besides the orange skin, he has a faint sheen all over, including his thick dyed yellow hair, as though he’s bathed in Pomade. He shakes his wrist to adjust the TAG Heuer watch and says of his father: “He was a mechanic, but he always wanted more for us. Taught me and my brothers how to play on some cheap public course—said that’s where all the business deals were cut, between _men._ That’s how things were then. That’s how his generation was—they weren’t always asking for a hand-out, you know. They understood _business_.” He strikes the ball and lands it straight, not as far as Applewhite's, but a solid drive, puts him on track for his approach. Boyd gives a self-satisfied nod and turns to Jorgenson: “Of course, your _mother_ is the golfer in your family, Jay.”

“Good old mom.” Jorgenson performs a few practice swings and says for the benefit of those not in the know (just Logan): “She placed second in the Women’s Open.” He punctuates the statement with a mediocre drive. Boyd actively winces at his son-in-law’s performance, but the others all make polite “Ahs,” and then it’s Cooper’s turn.

The district attorney, at least, does not feel the need to narrate his credentials as he tees off, but Applewhite turns to Logan while Cooper preps and, arms crossed high over his puffed up chest, asks: “What about you? Was _Tripp Mitchum_ actually a scratch player?”

Tripp Mitchum—Logan didn’t expect that reference, but he should’ve.

 _Scratch,_ Columbia Pictures, 1980. Aaron Echolls’s first Golden Globe nomination as a poor caddy who overcomes highly dramatized minor obstacles to bed Cybill Shepherd and beat rich guys at golf.

Forgettable fluff.

Logan sends Applewhite an appraising look, but doesn’t respond out of courtesy to Cooper, who’s preparing to drive.

“I’m sort of a _film buff_ ,” explains Applewhite, apparently unaffected by concerns of etiquette. “Nothing beats ‘80s camp.”

“Aaron played,” Logan confirms once Cooper’s ball lands. “He said it was good for business, so he’d play every couple of weekends at Bel-Air with industry people.” Logan swallows, does a practice swing. “He’d bitch about it a lot, though. Hated the game. Thought it was tedious. I doubt we ever played together.”

Logan squares up. Swings.

A short silence falls over the group in reaction. Then Cooper lets out a low whistle, and Boyd mutters something vaguely discontented about how guests should have to disclose handicaps—or lack thereof. Jorgenson gives another nervous chuckle, and Logan turns to shrug at Applewhite.

“Maybe that’s why he had professionals teach me instead?”

 

 

By the second or third hole, it becomes abundantly clear that Applewhite and Jorgenson have made it their personal mission in life (or at least in this game) to piss off Logan.

All things considered, this is a pretty pathetic personal mission, if for no other reason than—and Logan will be the first to admit it—the task is pretty easily accomplished. They needn't exert themselves.

They’re sufficiently successful this morning, and if Logan manages to maintain something of a poker face throughout, it's mostly because the arrangement gives him ample opportunity to question Jorgenson.

Which is cold comfort, but at least it's something.

On a Par-4 hole, Jorgenson casually starts ribbing Logan about driving a five year old convertible, just before Logan begins his approach. He then harps on Logan’s stiff, scarcely used club bag, and finds infinite amusement in the fact that Logan had to use a guest pass to enter the course today. On the fifth hole, he starts ironically saying “Lieutenant.” As in “The Lieutenant’s up next,” or “Is the Lieutenant on the green yet?”

Logan doesn’t punch him.

Because as much as Jorgenson pisses him off, he’s nowhere near as bad as Applewhite.

There’s a clear motive for that. Jorgenson hasn’t got a prayer for this game, whereas Applewhite is noticeably better and obviously competitive.

“So Veronica Mars, huh?” Applewhite asks, while they watch Boyd putt from five feet out. Logan doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even react. Just watches Boyd and laments the fact that it is, as of yet, impossible to _will_ people out of existence. “Bet she’s a handful.”

“Mmm, but she fixes all my legal problems, so.”

“Got a lot of those, do you? Legal problems?”

“Nothing they could ever make stick.” Logan frowns, feigning consideration. “Doesn’t say much for the _law_ around these parts, does it?”

“All right, you two,” cuts in Cooper, diplomatic to a fault, “Play nice.”

“What are you boys talking about?” Boyd hollers from across the green, while Jorgenson takes his turn.

“The law,” Applewhite calls back. He puffs up his chest to heretofore unprecedented levels of puff. “Your _Veronica_ has a law background, doesn’t she?”

Logan keeps his eyes on the Jorgenson, who finally sinks the hole. “Top of her class at Columbia.”

“Columbia?” He’s clearly surprised by this, like he didn’t expect such _bona fide_ credentials, and he blurts out unnecessarily: “I was at Stanford.”

“Oh yeah? Veronica did her undergrad there.” Logan enjoys Applewhite's sour expression. Enjoys his response a little less:

“So why’s she in the dirty picture business?”

“I guess it seemed more respectable.”

Jorgenson joins them, sweating and shaking the hair out of his eyes. “God, this hole’s a pill.”

“Think you’d be used to it by now,” retorts Applewhite, picking up his bag as they prepare to advance. “All the time you spend out here.” The ends of his lips twitch, and Jorgenson glances over his shoulder at Boyd, then back to Applewhite.

“I’m a naturally un-gifted golfer,” he says blithely.

“That’s right,” says Applewhite. “Tennis is your game.” 

“That’s right,” agrees Jorgenson. He turns and shoots a grin at Logan. “Does the Lieutenant play tennis? We should do doubles sometime.”

Logan goes full saccharine: “Oh _let’s_.”

 

 

After the game, Logan manages to ditch the rest of his group and heads to the outdoor bar for a quick conversation with a bartender. Having acquired the desired answers, he slips the girl a twenty and turns to make his escape, only to find himself face to face with an amused John Cooper.

“Thirsty?” asks Cooper.

“It’s a little early for me.”

“Oh, come on, Logan, we both know you didn’t come out here to play golf.” Logan takes off across the courtyard, and Cooper falls into step with him. “Veronica sent you to interrogate my coworkers, didn’t she?”

Logan slides his hands in his pockets and shrugs. Cooper frowns.

“For the case? With the mural guy? What does that have to do with Jared and Mike?”

“You’d have to ask Veronica that.”

Cooper chuckles. “I will.” He checks over his shoulder, back to the bar, receding as they progress further and further across the yard. “That bartender’s cute," he says.

“I prefer blondes.”

 

 

 

“Did you win?” is Veronica’s first question when Logan walks through the apartment door.

He doesn’t respond right away, just props his bag against the nearest wall so that he’s distraction free as he takes in the sight of Veronica, seated with her laptop at the kitchen table, eyes expectant and curious on Logan.

“Did I _win_?” He walks into the kitchen. “You send me out to do your dirty work for you, wired for sound like an F.B.I. informant, and all you can ask is _did I win?”_ He withdraws Veronica’s digital recorder from his pocket and sets it on the table next to her. She rests her chin on her knuckles and smiles up at him. “Of course I _won._  I wouldn’t have gone if I wasn’t going to win.”

 “Good. You have brought honor on this household. You may kiss me.” She tilts her head, provides her cheek, and Logan obliges. When he goes to pour himself a glass of water, the interrogation begins in earnest: “So how did it go?”

“Well, if you listen to the recording, you’ll hear something that sounds like a dying cat around the forty minute mark. That’s Michael Applewhite reacting to my Eagle on a par-five hole.”

Veronica nods. “And while I’m sure that all of those words mean _something_ to _somebody_ , I meant how did it go with the case? Did you get any quality time with Jorgenson?”

“Yep.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think he’s sleeping with one of the tennis coaches.”

“Really?”

“Well he definitely spends four mornings a week at the club, _supposedly_ on the golf course, but his drive looks like he’s playing Whack-a-Mole. Either he's Charles Barkley, or he's occupying his time elsewhere. One of the bartenders said he spends a lot of time with Elaine the Tennis Coach, and—well, it’s all on the recording.” Logan sits down at the table. Pony comes up to rest her head on his knee, and he divides his attention between scratching the dog’s ears and adding to Veronica: “I don’t think he did it, though.”

“Slept with Elaine the Tennis Coach?”

“No, I don’t think he’s tied to your case.”

Veronica picks up the recording device, frowning. “Why not?”

“I just don’t see him _caring_ that much.” Logan shrugs. “So if I understand it, the theory is that _Boris Who Sits On Benches_ is funneling information about various Balboa County employees to someone else in the courthouse, using either telepathy or some kind of undetectable surveillance device that you have yet to prove exists...”

“ _Oi_ , with the editorials.”

“...And that they’re using that information to expose corruption in the District Attorney’s office—or, possibly, to advance their own careers.”

Veronica nods. “More or less.”

“Well, I don’t think Jared Jorgenson cares enough about corruption _or_ his own career to go through all that trouble.”

“He hated the old D.A.,” Veronica points out.

“He hated the old D.A. because the old D.A. made him show up to work on time.” Off Veronica’s look, Logan insists: “I’m not joking. Listen to the recording. He actually _says_ that on the twelfth hole.”

“Well, it’s not Cooper—unless this is all part of some elaborate, Machiavellian scheme that makes no sense, because he hired me to look into the guy in the first place.”

“Maybe it’s a ruse to spend more time with you.”

“That never happens in real—well, come to think of it, that _has_ happened to me before.” She ignores his pointed look and goes on: “But excluding that unlikely event, I don’t see who else it could be in the D.A.’s office. Rodriguez is too new, Clancy was on maternity leave the first time Boris showed up, and Wagner was BFF’s with D.A. Yoder, so I doubt she’d help take him down. And Applewhite’s motives are all wrong.”

“So maybe it’s someone outside the D.A.’s office. Or maybe _Boris of the Bench_ is working alone, crusading for Lady Justice.”

“Lady Justice doesn’t deposit two thousand dollars cash into his bank account every week,” says Veronica dryly. “And if she does, she’s been holding out on me.”

 

Veronica listens to the recording of Logan’s game that afternoon.

It’s pretty cute, actually. She plugs in her earbuds and carries out the rest of her day as usual—goes for a run, finishes various chores, cleans the fridge, vacuums, all with this intense look of concentration on her face. Occasionally, she’ll stop whatever she’s doing and scribble something in a notebook, then resume her task with the same furrowed brow and a thoughtful frown.

Around four o’clock, Logan sits down on the couch with a stack of evals and a sense of inevitability, and, while he works, Veronica relocates herself to the couch as well, earbuds still in place, while she types furiously on the tablet. She starts out clear at the opposite end of the couch, but it’s a matter of minutes before she’s got her feet poking under Logan’s leg, and then not much longer before she’s on her back, head resting on Logan’s thigh, tablet held perpendicular to her ribcage. He has to shift his torso and use the arm of the couch if he wants to highlight anything on the evaluations, but he doesn't complain, because Veronica’s mumbling to herself, wearing those painted on yoga pants and a tiny red tank-top and the effect is endearing.

After an hour or so, she sighs heavily and sets the iPad aside, tugging out the earphones and turning her gaze up to Logan.

“All done?” he asks, setting aside his own paperwork for the moment.

Veronica nods. “Thanks for going. Those guys were jerks.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve golfed with worse.”

She smiles softly. “You’re right, too, I don’t think Jorgenson is our guy. The affair and his gambling explain his cash-flow issues, and I doubt any guy dumb enough to golf with his _father-in-law_ at the club where his mistress works is gonna be pulling many strings.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could work it out so that _Applewhite'_ _s_ your guy?” grumbles Logan. “’Cause he’s a _prick_.”

“The secretary they fired, Melanie Gossner, who was sleeping with the defense attorney, worked for Applewhite,” says Veronica. “There was a scandal, a bunch of bad press for him. If anything, he's a target more than a suspect. Plus, I think he was loyal to D.A. Yoder. Anyway, he thought Cooper was _disloyal_ when he started gunning for Yoder’s job.” Veronica sighs, twists her neck so that she’s whining into his abs: “You just had to go and disqualify my suspect, didn’t you?”

“Sorry.” He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “That’s what you get for sending my pretty face to work. Do you at least believe that John Cooper has a crush on you now?”

Veronica reemerges, wry and skeptical as she says: “You’re pathological, y’know.”

“Oh c’mon. Following me around the club after the game? ‘ _That bartender’s cute?’_ He was trying to bait me.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “He retold that damn _washing machine_ story, too.”

“Yeah. Exactly. That’s not even his story to tell.”

She pokes him in the ribs. “It’s not _your_ story either.”

“Sure it is. Community property.”

“That’s only if we’re married, and _you’re_ afraid of falling pianos.”

“And brain tumors.”

Veronica swings her body upward, ends up seated, legs crisscrossed, to Logan’s left. “I’ll bet you five bucks John Cooper doesn’t have a crush on me.”

“Oooh, big spender.”

Veronica smiles, then climbs over onto his lap, rising up on her knees as she straddles him, which gives Logan the opportunity to demonstrate his full appreciation for her yoga pants. She’s higher than him in this position, has to dip her head to kiss his lips.

“Thank-you for going,” she says again. He nods his _you’re welcome_. Veronica studies his face for quiet moment, and then shakes her head, as though dismissing some thought to which Logan is not privy. She kisses him again, longer this time, in that way she does when she wants to say something without actually having to say it. When she pulls back: “So this bartender. Brunette? Redheaded? Cute? Twenty-two? She _sounded_ twenty-two...”

Logan turns his head, grazes his teeth along the spot on Veronica’s neck that makes her voice go all raw and breathy, and asks: “Now who’s pathological?”

“ _St—still you_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s that?” Veronica points at the beige plastic tub that Logan has just selected from the shelf. It’s the monthly _stock-up on basics_ shopping trip—a two hour voyage through Target, two grocery stores, and the pet food place, with a final stop for ice cream at Amy’s, if everyone is well-behaved. They’re on the final leg of the Fenley’s stretch—having successfully completed their goals in Target and Trader Joe’s—and the cart is pretty well full by this time, so Logan just sets his latest selection on top of the red meat and prepares to move on.

“It’s protein powder,” he tells her, though he assumes that’s pretty obvious. Nothing besides protein powder or cleaning supplies would have the word “optimum” in all caps on the label.

“That’s not the kind you usually get,” says Veronica.

“Yeah, I thought I’d try something new.” He drags the cart along after him, Veronica pushing it from the front.

“Is there something wrong with the other kind?”

“No. They’re all pretty much the same.”

“What if you don’t like the new one?”

“Well then I’ll obviously have no other recourse than to scream profanities and light myself on fire.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t like it, you won’t use it, and we’ll have a giant tub of unused protein powder hogging room in the cupboard.”

“It’s _protein_ powder, Veronica, it doesn’t really taste like anything.”

“So if I’m shopping by myself next time and I need to pick you up some protein powder, should I get this one or should I get the normal one?”

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

“Even if I got you the Protein for Women powder?”

“As long as it is intended for human consumption and can be effectively mixed with blended fruits and vegetables, I don’t care.”

“Even if it comes in a flimsy bag and costs eight dollars an ounce?”

“If I thought you’d let me budget eight dollars an ounce for protein powder, I’d have been buying that a long time ago.”

They make it to the deli—the real reason they come to Fenley’s at all, since Veronica believes it’s the best in town—and while they wait for their lunch meat selections, Veronica stares through the glass window at the pre-made pasta salads, chewing on her lower lip.

“Do you know anything about pacemakers?” she asks after a minute.

“No.”

“Me neither.” She pulls out her cell phone and starts typing away, and Logan leans over to snoop.

“Wikipedia, huh? Good to know you’re using reliable sources.”

“Shhh, I’m researching.”

“You got a heart condition I should know about?” He thinks suddenly of her dad, but—no, she would’ve mentioned that before, and she certainly wouldn’t be relying on Wikipedia _now_ if there were something going on.

Veronica doesn’t look up from her phone. “Why? Thinking of taking out a life insurance policy on me?”

Logan taps his lips with one finger, speculative. “Ah, I think you have to be _married_ for that.”

“Is that so?”

“What with falling pianos and all.”

The lady on the other side of the counter hands them their deli meet, and Veronica puts away her phone, resuming her position at the head of the cart. She frowns down at the contents and says: “You _sure_ you don’t want to get the other protein powder?”

Logan sighs. “It’s the container, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t deny it. “The other kind comes in the pretty purple tub!”

 

 

Veronica Mars is a woman of many gifts, most of which, Logan admires immensely.

She is brilliant, beautiful, sexy, good at pretty much everything, and fond of costumes and props, to name just a few examples.

From time to time, she can also be what Logan would, for the sake of politeness, call “single-minded,” and, for the sake of accuracy, call “annoying.”

For instance, right now.

It’s eleven thirty p.m. on Monday night, and Logan has had a long, tiresome day at the base, followed by a pretty severe traffic jam on the Five that nearly doubled his commute time. Also, he tried the new protein powder this morning, and it was actually pretty terrible. So by the time he and Veronica climb into bed that evening, Logan is ready to put an end to this Monday. It takes him a good fifteen minutes to fall asleep, but he’s just gotten there, just dropped off into sweet unconsciousness, when he awakes to a sharp jabbing sensation somewhere in the vicinity of his clavicle.

He opens one eye and squints through the dark at Veronica, who has rolled over onto her back to stare at him.

“I know what happened!” she whispers, right up in his face, and Logan winces.

He closes his eye again and grumbles: “I don’t care.”

He can feel Veronica squirming and shifting under the blankets. She is irritable and _very_ awake when she says: “I solved the case.”

“ _Mhm-solve-it-tomorrow.”_

“I _already_ solved it,” she insists. “I know what Boris Slattery is doing, and I know how, and I know why.”

Against his will, Logan is slightly more alert by the time she finishes that sentence, though he keeps his eyes resolutely shut. “Didn’t you have a rule about no cases in the bedroom? I remember that being a rule once.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”

At this point, Logan decides that immediate action must be taken, before Veronica really gets going and decides to do the whole _detective monologue_ right here, right now. He loops his arm around her waist and drags her closer to him, holds her close like she’s the world’s noisiest body pillow, and buries his face between her shoulder and her neck, enjoying the breezy, chemical smell of her freshly shampooed hair. “Tomorrow,” he mumbles. “Sleep now. Solve cases tomorrow. _Please_.”

Veronica inhales like she's preparing to protest, but then exhales and doesn’t. She just adjusts their positions slightly, so that Logan’s head falls back to his pillow, and she’s got a little—just a little—wiggle room. “Fine. But if I wake up tomorrow and can’t remember how I solved it, I am holding you personally...”

“Babe.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right.”

She nestles in closer and falls silent. Warm and solid, really the best body pillow, even if she can be noisy. Logan’s body begins to feel heavy, his muscles relax, lulled by the steady rhythm of Veronica’s breathing, right over his heart.

Goddammit.

He rolls over and sits up, switching on the bedside lamp and then turning back to Veronica, who blinks up at him, confused, in the sudden brightness.

“Alright,” he says, “just tell me already.”

 

* * *

 

 

“It tastes _good_ ,” Mac is insisting the next afternoon, while Veronica shakes her head, disbelieving, from her position on the corner of her gal-pal-tech-genius-business-partner’s desk. “Come on. Sautéed? With caramelized onions? And vegan bacon?”

Veronica continues to shake her head, refusing to be swayed by Mac’s poor attempt to introduce bacon into the argument.

“What is it with people trying to force gross health food on me?”

Mac refocuses on the monitor on her desk. “Just because some of us have more refined tastes...”

“Okay, first of all, your lunch yesterday consisted entirely of Oreo dippers and a juice box...”

“It was an ironic homage to the nineties.”

“And that sentence right there is why you like kale. Food should not be _ironic_ , Mac.”

Her friend laughs, though the sound of the office’s front door opening brings the discussion to a halt. And, speak of the devil, it’s Veronica’s other beloved Health Food pusher, strolling into the office at the unexpected hour of quarter past two p.m.

Pony—who was asleep in Veronica’s office ten seconds ago—immediately surfaces and scampers over to greet Logan.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Veronica rises from the edge of Mac’s desk, but doesn’t bother to go meet Logan, as he’s already squatted on the floor, socializing with the dog. “They didn’t send you home for shooting spitballs again, did they?”

“Nah. Fighting. I stole Lieutenant Matheson’s lunch money.”

“Well, I’m sure he had it coming.”

Logan stands up again, leaving Pony to trot away and entertain herself. “Hi, Mac.”

“Hullo.”

“What _are_ you doing here?” Veronica wants to know, crossing to the other side of the desk.

“I got the rest of the day off.”

She’s immediately suspicious. “Why?”

“To pack.”

“Oh.” _And her suspicions are justified, it turns out_. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. It was supposed to be Mitchell, but he’s grounded. They just briefed me this morning.” He sounds apologetic, and that annoys Veronica. “It’s just Texas. I’ll be back Saturday night.”

Veronica nods. “Good. I hate when you’re around during the week. It’s such a distraction from my other boyfriends.”

Logan smiles, appreciative, and strolls up to place a kiss on her cheek. “So did you guys deliver the bad news yet?” he asks.

“We were just about to, actually,” says Veronica. “Mac and Pony are coming along, we’re doing a whole _girls’ day_.”

“You women and your frivolous hobbies.”

“Want to join?” asks Mac, and Veronica shoots her a skeptical look. “What? _You_ get an attack dog, can’t I have one too?”

“This is why you don’t go out in the field, Q.”

“I’m always glad to watch a classic villain take-down,” says Logan. “Will there be monologuing?”

“With _you two_ around?” Mac hops up, pulls her jacket from the back of her chair, “There’ll be nothing _but_ monologuing.”

 

 

When Veronica and Pony have gone off to collect Cooper, Logan sits down at one end of the bench on the second floor corridor of the Balboa County Courthouse. Mac takes a seat at the opposite end, with _Boris the Allison Kraus Fan_ in-between.

Mac frowns at the large mural before them, honoring—according to the plaque—Neptune’s diverse community. Which would be a nicer sentiment if it seemed even a little sincere. Or if there weren’t so many white people.

“They look possessed,” she remarks of the oversized faces and semi-crazed smiles there depicted. “Or like they’re on an anti-depressant commercial.”

“Did an eight year old paint this?” Logan asks. “Because that’s the only way it’s impressive.”

“The figures are _meant_ to convey simplicity, Logan,” says Mac sarcastically. “Because... community is simple? I don’t know.”

“Why is the man in a suit carrying a sickle?”

“Because he’s an elegant guy, who likes to farm.”

“Looks like a serial killer.”

“He—oh, wow, he _does_.”

Boris Slattery ignores Mac and Logan’s comedic efforts, most likely because he can’t hear over whatever’s pumping through his earphones.

He’s in his thirties, pretty much exactly what Logan expected from how Veronica described the guy. He wears maroon corduroy pants and a navy blue hoodie, with an iPhone in his palm and his eyes planted on the mural in front of him. His face is long and pale, distinguished by round, wire-rimmed glasses and an unshaven jawline, paired with mussed-and-gelled light brown hair. 

Logan leans forward to address Mac. “So is he listening in right now?”

“Could be,” Mac replies. “Or he could just be jamming out to _That Kind of Love_. The phone keeps a transcript of everything it captures.”

Whatever Boris is listening to, it’s loud enough that he doesn’t notice that Logan and Mac are discussing him. He just continues to stare vacantly ahead, thumb tapping idly on the darkened screen in his hand.

“So how’d you figure out what he’s doing?” asks Logan. “Steal his phone?”

“Didn’t have to,” says Mac. “We just—uh, accessed his bill online. His data usage was overwhelmingly devoted to a voice-to-text app. Which doesn’t really make sense, since that app shouldn’t be using _any_ data. I thought he might have reprogrammed the app to transmit from another phone, but that would be difficult to do undetected, unless the phones were close enough to sync. So we looked at the surrounding area, and guess whose office is right up there.” She glances at the ceiling indicatively.

“The old D.A.’s office?” Logan guesses.

“And the _new_ D.A.’s office.”

They must catch Boris between songs, then, because their mark finally seems to grasp that his two bench-mates are discussing him. He looks between the two, startled, and hastily removes one earbud, but Logan’s wide, superficial grin does plenty to confirm his fears.

“Hi, I’m Logan.” He offers his hand, mostly sarcastic, and Boris just nods, removes the other earbud and starts to get up.

“Unwise,” says Mac loudly, and Boris twitches, as though he’s been struck. He hesitates in an awkward hover over the bench, and Mac adds confidentially: “There’s a deputy who likes me, and he’s right over there.” She nods down the hall, to where Norris Clayton performs his strongest Vin Diesel impersonation, standing between their bench and the exit, guns-a-blazing, so to speak, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Honestly, I think it’s _me_ he likes,” says Logan. “But we’ll agree to disagree. Have a seat, Boris.” He pats the bench invitingly, but Boris doesn’t move.

“Don’t worry, we already know about your set up,” says Mac. “It’s pretty impressive. And, hey, you don’t know this, but I actually went to the same college as you. Same department too, but I was a few years younger, so I don’t think we ever met.”

“Look, guys,” the unfortunate Mr. Slattery finally speaks, falling back onto the bench and turning his head to look first at Logan, then at Mac, “I don’t know who you are, but...”

“I told you, it’s ‘Logan.’ And I went to your college too.”

“Occasionally,” says Mac.

“ _Very_ occasionally,” agrees Logan.

“But that’s enough about us. Let’s talk about you and your tech.” Mac looks purposefully at the phone he’s anxiously turning over in his hands. “So you can use it as a radio transmitter, too, right? I mean, I know it could potentially mess with the other electronic devices in the area when you do, but you’ll only need to turn it on for a couple of minutes...”

“Hey!” Boris protests, when Logan plucks the iPhone from his hands, wordlessly relaying it to Mac.

“...And I really think you’ll be interested in hearing this particular conversation.” Her fingers glide expertly over the screen, and within a minute, she’s conjured up the desired app. She pulls out the earphones and amps up the volume, and Veronica’s voice suddenly joins them—altered but clear through the speakers, accompanied by mirroring text that appears incrementally on the screen: “ _She’s here for emotional support_.”

 

Upstairs, Veronica leads the way down the hallway from John Cooper’s office, Pony at her heel, Cooper working to keep up, despite his longer stride.

“How’d you get the dog in past security?” asks the D.A. “I thought they only allowed service pets in here.”

Clearly, this man underestimates Veronica’s charm.

“She’s here for emotional support,” Veronica tells him, just as they reach their destination. It’s a wooden framed door with a fogged glass window, and a little plaque to the left that names the owner.

“I don’t understand...” Cooper begins to say, but Veronica interrupts him.

“You will.”

She knocks but doesn’t wait for a response, just lets herself into the small waiting room, where a young aid is busy at a filing cabinet.

“Is he in?” Veronica gestures toward the door that will lead them into the main office, but she’s already making her way across the room. She catches Cooper’s soothing _“It’s all right, Tim_ ,” to the aid as she reaches the door, then turns and tells the D.A. over her shoulder: “You wait here.” In an undertone: “Eavesdropping is advised.”

She lets herself into Applewhite’s office.

Applewhite sits at the desk, eyes on his laptop screen until they’re on Veronica. Then Pony. Then Veronica again.

“Uh—hello.”

“Hi, remember me?”

Applewhite looks vexed. He closes his computer. “You’re a difficult girl to forget.” The “unfortunately” is implied. Veronica drops into the leather-upholstered chair opposite him, crossing her legs at the knee and guiding Pony along to sit on the floor beside her. “Can I help you with something, Veronica Mars?” Applewhite asks, glancing at the dog again.

“Well, it’d be pretty helpful if you confessed to illegally surveilling your coworkers.”

“I—what?” The surprise seems genuine, although Veronica suspects it’s mostly surprise that he’s been caught. Applewhite gets to his feet, fingertips on the surface of the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d make me walk you through it.” Veronica sighs. “It’s not a terrible plan, and I respect the simplicity of it. Really, you mostly got yourself into trouble when you started getting too fancy. What’s the matter with a good old-fashioned bug, anyway? Sure, you’ve got to leave the evidence behind, but if you think about it, hacking Coop’s phone causes the same problems. I mean, it looks fine to _me_ , but my friend Mac informs me that there are all kinds of digital fingerprints on the software.”

Applewhite regains himself somewhat. His back straightens, and his hands move to his hips, latched onto the belt at his waist. “' _Coop_ ,' huh?” he says, with a knowing smile. “It’s funny, there were rumors that you two had—uh, bonded, but I didn’t think they were _true_...”

“Rumors that you undoubtedly started, when you went through his phone and saw that we’d been in contact. That's the plan, right? Discredit Cooper any way you can, dig up dirt to use against him in the next election?”

“I’ve got to say, you probably would have made a decent attorney.” Applewhite begins to pace, shaking his head, still with the same condescending smirk. “I’m impressed at the _nerve._ Letting your new boyfriend strut around the golf course with your fiancée. Tell me, has Logan Echolls realized you’ve traded him in for the Old Money model yet, or were you waiting for the right moment to tell him? I mean, I get it, the Hollywood fighter pilot—it’s shiny, but there’s just no substitute for an influential connection, am I right?”

You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it, but Veronica gives a slight tug on Pony’s leash, and the dog emits an angry, snarling growl at the assistant district attorney. Applewhite starts, takes an instinctive step back, and Veronica coos to Pony: “Aww, _good girl_.” She scratches the dog’s scalp affectionately, then turns her stare back to Applewhite, who is standing at the window now, trying to be subtle about putting as much distance as possible between him and the pitbull. “Anyway, it didn’t take a _huge_ leap to figure that you’d want to oust Yoder, even if you did pretend to defend him. He was your boss; you wanted his job. So you listened in on his calls and meetings, cobbled together something that looked like an accusation, ran it up the flagpole, and _I_ saluted. Of course, you were _hoping_ to use the opportunity to snag Yoder’s job, but then pesky John Cooper came along with his wide demographic appeal and toothy grin. I mean, he speaks three languages, and his fiancé looks like she should be reciting headlines on Fox News. You didn’t stand a chance.”

Applewhite sneers and shakes his head, peering over his shoulder out the window. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is _insane_.”

“Honestly, once I was looking at you, the whole thing came together. I just didn’t start _looking_ right away. I mean, if you were Boris Slattery’s inside man, why would he expose Melanie Gossner's affair to the guy’s _wife_? Mel was _your_ assistant; the scandal put you at risk for public embarrassment, which wouldn’t help your electability. And it’s funny, because _right up until_ yesterday afternoon, when I finally got a hold of her El Paso phone number, Melanie had no idea you wanted her fired at all. As far as she was concerned, she’d _resigned in disgrace,_ and you had nothing to do with it. Of course, she was pretty shaken up by the fact that someone tried to murder her boyfriend with a luxury SUV, so...” Veronica shrugs. “Anyway, _your Mel_ —she sure was loyal, all things considered. Took me almost an hour to get her to fess up that you’d asked her to do some spying for you. She even had a vague sense that you were planting bugs on other people in the office. But really, you didn’t need to panic and ruin her reputation, just to get her out of town. She had _no_ idea that Boris Slattery’s surveillance tech had anything to do with Judge Manoff’s pacemaker failing. Or the pressure sensors on the waterline going out.”

Applewhite moves into the oh-so-predictable, _this is crazy, you have no right_ stage of the conversation. “This is crazy,” he says. “You have _no_ right...”

“Of course,” Veronica speaks over him, “I _did_ accidentally let it slip that you intentionally destroyed her career and turned her into a sick local joke to cover your own ass, and that kind of pissed her off, so—if you get a call, that’s what that’s about.”

“I want a lawyer,” says Applewhite. Veronica frowns.

“You know I’m not obliged to just—like—give you a lawyer, right? I’m just a P.I.” She gestures at the room around them. “I don’t even work here. Anyway, where was I? Yoder, Gossner, pacemaker, waterline... did I hit all the points?”

“You can’t prove that I had anything to do with anyone surveilling anyone in this office...” snaps Applewhite, picking up his cell phone and beginning to text furiously.

“Oh, you’re right, I forgot that point.” Veronica leans back in her chair, folds her hands together on her knee. “This was a low-ball. I should’ve seen it right away. I mean, come on, we both bleed Cardinal red, right? Go Stanford, Beat Cal?” She does a cheerleader’s fist pump, and Applewhite stares at her over his phone, like he really is starting to question her sanity. “You went to Stanford,” she clarifies, “Which, incidentally, is one of the few elite West Coast schools to host chapters of the Intercollegiate Institution of Rich Guys Who Want to Help Each Other out, known in other circles as the Castle...”

_“You need to leave now...”_

“...Another such school being Hearst College—Boris Slattery’s _alma mater_. I _also_ attended Hearst for a year, during which time I acquired this fun little list of names...”

“Those were rumors and conspiracy theories; there was never any proof...”

“Sometimes the conspiracy turns out to be true,” says Veronica. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” She uncrosses her legs and rises to her feet. “There’s plenty of evidence against Slattery. He developed the tech that turns Cooper’s iPhone into a live mike, he’ll go down either way. And I’m sure there’s some tenet of Castle brotherhood that says you don’t abandon the brethren in their time of need—especially if you’re the reason they’re _in_ a time of need at all, so...”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of anyone named Boris Slattery, and I’ve certainly never participated in any illegal activity like you’re describing.” Applewhite’s eyes light up suddenly, inspired: “For all I know, this man you’re talking about has hired you to blackmail the District Attorney’s office, and I must insist that you leave immediately.” He waves at the door, and Veronica complies, hitching her bag up higher on her shoulder as she leads Pony along. “I’ll be contacting the authorities.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Veronica. “The authorities have been contacted.” She reaches the door and leans against the handle, simpers over her shoulder. “I know. I’m a handful. C’mon, Ponygirl.”

She walks back into the lobby, closing Applewhite’s door behind her. Cooper is waiting close by, eyebrows raised when Veronica emerges, though he doesn’t appear altogether skeptical. “Is that all true?” he asks.

Veronica plucks his phone from the pocket of her jeans and holds it up for Cooper to take. “I guess we’ll find out. Thanks for letting me borrow this.”

 

 

At Veronica’s “Thanks for letting me borrow this,” Mac closes out the app on Boris’s phone and returns the device to him.

“It’s a shame,” says Logan, leaning back on the bench, legs extended far into the hallway before them. “The bloodless ties of secret fraternal organizations really aren’t what they used to be.”

“It’s like, if you can’t trust the clandestine bonds of membership in elite associations designed to prop up the patriarchal underpinnings of society, what _can_ you trust?” says Mac.

“I want a lawyer,” says Boris.

“Well—um, we don’t really work here either,” says Mac. “But I’m sure you’re welcome to hire one.”

Logan grimaces. “I wouldn’t recommend Michael Applewhite, though.”

 

 

“I’ll have to get a new cell,” remarks John Cooper, staring forlornly down at his desk, as though he already feels the loss of his phone in the few brief minutes since Deputy Rodgers took it away for evidence. Veronica, seated in his office's guest chair, gives him a sympathetic frown, and Cooper chuckles, self-deprecating. “I can’t thank you enough, Veronica.”

“Well, you can try.”

She smiles graciously though, rises from the chair, and Pony trots over to the door, sensing an exit. Before Veronica’s taken two steps, however, Cooper stops her with a, “Wait.” He circumnavigates the desk to stand beside her—still at a polite distance, but his expression is suddenly just slightly nervous. It’s not a look she’s ever seen on John Cooper, polished lawyer, budding politician, and it might just be the first time she’s witnessed him fail—even fleetingly—at eye contact. She removes Pony’s leash from her bag as she waits for him to cut to the chase, and when he does, he’s rediscovered his usual poise, despite the momentary lapse.

“You’re a remarkable woman, Veronica,” he says, takes a step closer, and— _uh oh_ , Veronica recognizes this move. It’s not even close to her first time hearing the _You’re a Remarkable Woman, I’m a Remarkable Man, Think We Can Make Something Happen?_ speech. If she ever writes her memoirs, that’ll be the title of the Columbia chapter.

Veronica doesn’t budge, offers no retreat, but crosses her arms. “Thanks. I like to think so.”

“I probably wouldn’t have my job if it weren’t for you.” Cooper doesn’t take another step, but he sort of _leans_.

“Twice over,” Veronica agrees. “I accept cash, checks, and all major credit cards”

“Veronica,” he says, a single word but loaded with meaning. A plea, a complaint, a question.

Veronica’s response isn’t half so fraught. The only message it contains is warning, sugary sweet but utterly resolute: “ _Coop_.”

Cooper sighs, but he seems to get the message. His shoulders sag, and he pulls back. “Logan’s a very lucky man,” he says, after a long moment. His stare is excessively wistful, and Veronica finds herself battling off the impulse to roll her eyes. If she had a dime for every “remarkable man” who turned out to be downright predictable...

“Well, I like him all right,” she says, smoothing out the leash in her hand, as she takes a step backwards toward the door. “And the dog’s pretty attached.”

 

 

Logan has managed to snag the _New York Times_ from an unattended desk, and he sits on the bench on the second floor corridor, with a pen cap between his teeth and the crossword puzzle against his thigh, awaiting Veronica’s return. He’s just inking in the eight letter answer to _Yoknapatawpha’s Founder_ (FAULKNER), when she slouches over, Pony at her side, and collapses gracelessly onto the bench beside him.

She drops her head back, knees apart, purse between her legs, and exhales histrionically—a performance that moves through her whole body and ends with a fatigued bleat from deep in her throat. Logan smiles as he observes this from the corner of his eye, still half focused on eight letters for _Not Greek._

“All finished?” he asks, while Pony arranges herself tidily at their feet.

Veronica doesn’t exactly respond. Instead, she heaves forward off the wall and begins rummaging around in her purse, eventually withdrawing her wallet, then a wrinkled green five dollar bill.

He finishes scrawling _BARBARIC_ in the little boxes on the paper, then recaps the pen and plucks the bill from between her two fingers, extended for him.

It takes him a moment to puzzle it out, but he does.

“ _No way_. Just now?”

Veronica nods, says in a deep, cheesy-masculine voice: “ _You’re a very remarkable woman, Veronica.”_

“Nice. Did he say how _he can’t explain it, but he just feels drawn to you?”_

“It didn’t get that far,” she replies. “I mean, we made out a little, but...”

“You’re not funny.”

“I think I’m hilarious.” He slides an arm around her shoulder and pulls her up close, and she rests her head in the crook of his arm. “Did Mac already leave?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“She took the Toyota?”

“I gave her the Beamer.”

“Oh. What time do you leave tomorrow?”

“Early.”

“Base first or airport?”

“Base.”

“Need a ride?”

“I’ll just drive myself.”

“I can give you a ride if you’d rather.”

“It’s easier if I don’t have to deal with pre-caffeinated Veronica.”

“Shut up.”

Logan kisses the top of her head, mumbles into her scalp: “You done for today?”

“Ugh, no. I’ve got a meeting and I’m closing on another case. The one with the...” She does a vague twirling gesture to signify.

“You solved that one?”

“After breakfast.”

“Was it the butler?”

“The oldest son.”

“That figures.”

Veronica yawns, and Logan disentangles himself from her, setting aside his pilfered newspaper and standing up. He offers his hand, and she takes it, begrudgingly rising, in synchrony with Pony. She loops her right arm through his, doubles, then triples the leash around her left knuckles, and they stroll along towards the exit. Logan enjoys the bewildered stares that Pony earns them as they go.

“You could be a couple minutes late for your meeting,” he suggests, “We could swing by In n’ Out on the way back.”

Veronica clicks her tongue. “And here I was hoping you’d make me a smoothie.”

"You didn't correct him," says Logan, because he can't help but notice that today featured the second _technically inaccurate_ application of the "Fiancée" word. Veronica follows his train of thought without missing a beat. She looks at the floor.

"I guess I didn't, huh."

"No."

"C'mon, Flyboy, buy me a hamburger."

* * *

 

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon, a few weeks later, and Logan is sitting on their living room couch, reading _Wise Blood_ and enjoying the last, sweet-tangy bites of a jazz apple. Just as he sets the core aside on the plate on the end table, the familiar twangs of guitar fill the apartment.

Veronica must have switched on the sound system—not unusual, especially when she’s doing chores, as she was when Logan last spoke with her an hour ago. He keeps his eyes on the novel, therefore, lets the Alabama Shakes surround him and doesn’t give it a second thought.

He hears Veronica’s approaching footsteps, and then she asks: “So what do you think?”

“Think of wh...?” He doesn’t make it all the way through the question, as he looks up to see Veronica standing at the other end of the room, hands on her hips, clothed in nothing but that fucking orange polo shirt. Logan breaks out in laughter, and Veronica grins, exaggerating seduction as she struts over toward the couch.

“I don’t know, I think I’m pulling it off.” She pauses, spreads her arms, and gives herself an appraising look; Logan dog-ears the page of his book.

“You’re really not.”

“Ooh, somebody’s jealous.” She resumes her approach with additional hip-swishing in time to the music, but you can barely tell under all that shirt.

“God, it’s so ugly,” he laughs, just as she reaches him and he sets aside his book. He’s not wrong—it’s a hideous shirt, fits Veronica ridiculously, but there are certainly aspects that are suddenly more appealing. Like how the fabric falls over her chest, leaving very little to the imagination... how the collar sits too wide on her narrower frame, so if he tugged on the sleeve, the neckline would slip over her shoulder...

He meets her eye again, and sees that Veronica is fully aware of his thought process, because she’s smirking down at him.

She places first one knee then the other on either side of his legs, inching forward until she’s straddling his hips. “You can’t think of _anything_ redeeming about it?” she teases.

He considers. “Well—it’s probably not too hard to tear?”

Veronica leans forward and places a light kiss on his hairline; then in the middle of his forehead, then over his eyebrow, then at the corner of his eye.

“You like it,” she says, teeth skimming his ear. She sinks her body lower, to prove the point.

“No.”

“You like me.”

“Eh.”

“You love me.”

“Barely.”

She kisses his mouth. Softly twice, firmly once. “A lot,” she corrects, and ain’t that the truth.

He scoots forward, which—given Veronica’s clothing situation—has some delightful, moan-inducing implications, and when he’s at the edge of the couch, he gathers his strength, lifts with his legs, and stands them up. No easy feat, but Veronica is sufficiently impressed, because she wraps her legs and arms tight around his body and seals her lips to his, a giddy, thorough kiss that lasts them all the way down the hallway. She only stops to extricate him from his shirt, which lands on the floor outside their bedroom and is promptly forgotten.

When he drops her onto the bed, Veronica bounces a little. She scrambles back, so that she’s stretched out sideways, supported by her elbows and grinning up at him.

And God help him, that awful shirt is riding up her belly and slipping off one shoulder, leaving her more than half naked, and he _does_ like it. A lot.

He reaches for his belt buckle, and Veronica’s eyes glaze over as they follow his hands. She pops one leg up to cross over the other at the knee, and her lower lip disappears beneath her teeth. He almost rips the belt buckle off getting it open, and Veronica unbites her lip to release a sharp, anticipatory breath, her chest rising and falling noticeably as she does. The shirt slips further down her shoulder.

He’s going to enjoy the hell out of this.

 

They both do.

Later, Logan is sprawled out on his back, staring up at the slow-spin of the ceiling fan, with Veronica belly-down beside him, one arm slung over his stomach, her whole sweat-slick body laid out, as neither of them has managed to figure out blankets yet.

His brain has been a glorious blank for the last three minutes, nothing registering besides complete physical bliss, the tick of the ceiling fan, and Veronica’s shiny naked skin. Now his brain kicks into gear though, as it is known to do, thoughts returning to him in a rushed, nonsensical onslaught.

He thinks about Veronica, and how they’re going to have to remember coffee when they go shopping tomorrow, and how her birthday is in nine days. And that Eddie at the base said the sensor on the fuel gauge needs recalibrating, and that he needs to change the oil in the Beamer. And that he really does love Veronica a lot—should tell her that, but he already growled it against her skin just as she was coming, back arched, moaning those perfect, pitchy _ohs._ Then the thoughts kind of die off, replaced by a series of really exceptional images instead.

 _—_ Her shoulder blades rise and fall slowly with each breath now, her hair a swirl of blonde on the grey pillow _s, the orange polo did tear awfully easy, he’d marry her in a second, he really would_ —

Veronica sighs heavily, turns her gaze to him and smiles a lazy, satisfied smile that calms his skipping brain.

“I have a confession to make,” he says at random.

“Mmm.” She scooches closer to him, lifting her head and wiggling it onto his chest with probably more drama than is entirely necessary. “It’s not gonna kill my afterglow, is it?”

Logan shakes his head. Smiles down at her as she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. “At the Silverado Club Summer Charity Gala last month, I told the washing machine story on purpose,” he says.

It takes her a moment, but she gets there eventually, tilting her head so that she can scowl at him. “To embarrass me?”

“ _No_. It’s not an embarrassing story. It’s a cute story.” She looks doubtful. “It’s just not a _sexy_ story.”

After a long moment, she begins to chuckle. She turns her head to nuzzle his chest, her breath and her skin sweet and hot, and when she’s laughed it off, she kisses his pec softly, then scoots up so that her lips reach his jaw.

“It’s okay,” she allows, in a voice that tells him she’s got a confession of her own. “Sometimes I tell girls that your call sign is ‘Mouth’ because you puked every day of basic training.”

Logan shifts to look down at Veronica, and her blue eyes are alight with amusement. “But that’s not true,” he points out.

Veronica snickers. She scrapes her teeth gently along his jawline. “Well,” she says, climbing over him again. “ _You_ know that.” She draws her lips together, places a wet kiss on the column of his throat. “And _I_ know that.” Another kiss, to the collarbone this time. Then she peers up at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, chewing her lip, just slightly ashamed. “But Kimmy Blake-Gallagher doesn’t know that.”

Logan can't help himself. He laughs. "Path-o-logical."

"Oh _stop_."

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing is just me trying to convey through fic the feels that I get when I see the Kristen Bell/Jason Dohring EW photoshoot with the marshmallows. That's all this is. You could've saved yourself a lot of time and just gone and looked at the Kristen Bell/Jason Dohring EW photoshoot with the marshmallows. 
> 
> The surely many mistakes in this are mine, because deadlines are hard.
> 
> (Also, technically this employed one of the vmfic prompts for July- Word Table Bingo- including all five words from the second horizontal row from the top. That being said, it feels a little silly bragging about managing to get five prescribed words in a 21,000+ document. And two of them ended up in Logan's crossword puzzle. Like, at this point, I really should've been able to fit the whole table in. But shout out to the beautiful people over at the VM fic recs tumblr!)


End file.
